


Everything is Deja Vu when Time Travel is involved

by Panamic



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anakin Skywalker Has Issues, Anakin Skywalker is a Little Shit, Anakin Skywalker is a badass, Anakin Skywalker is terrifying, Anakin is Over Powered, Anakin is a Kleptomaniac, Anakin is a Sociopath, Anakin likes making problems, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Darth Vader, Badass Aurra Sing, Boba Fett Needs A Hug, Boba Fett is a Little Shit, CT-7567 | Rex Needs a Hug, Child Neglect, Clone Troopers Speak Mando'a (Star Wars), Cryptid Anakin, Cuy'val Dar redemption, Eldritch Anakin Skywalker, Evil Anakin, Force-Sensitive Jango Fett, Gen, Good Parent Jango Fett, Good mother Shmi Skywalker, Hurt Quinlan Vos, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Jango Fett adopts all the clones, Jango protects the Clones, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Mechanic Anakin Skywalker, No Beta We Die Like Clones, No offence to Sir Patrick Stewart, Obi-Wan Kenobi is so Done, Quinlan Vos Needs A Hug, Sassy Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sibling Bonding, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), The Clones are Mandalorian, The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars), The Father (Star Wars: The Clone Wars) is a bad parent, The Kaminoans get what they deserve, The Light Side of the Force (Star Wars), Time Travel, Transgender Clones, Young Boba Fett
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29041680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panamic/pseuds/Panamic
Summary: Anakin finds himself back on Tattooine in a child body. Specifically; his child body.The Force should have known better than to send Anakin to the past. Now he's been let loose in the galaxy with incredible power, a child body, homicidal tendencies, and a single goal; become the galaxy's cryptid.
Relationships: Alpha-26 | Maze & Jango Fett, Anakin Skywalker & Shmi Skywalker, Boba Fett & Anakin Skywalker, Boba Fett & Jango Fett, CT-7567 | Rex & CT-5385 | Tup, CT-7567 | Rex & Vhonte Tervho, Jango Fett & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Quinlan Vos, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Quinlan Vos, The Daughter | Winged Goddess & The Son | Fanged God
Comments: 237
Kudos: 462





	1. Creative Interpretation of the Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Author Takes Creative Liberties In Interpreting The Force  
> And Anakin makes a mess

Darth Vader has had his prosthetics changed many times over the years. They’d get damaged, or would wear away with time, and he’d have them replaced.

Some of the replacements were lighter, designed for speed and ease of movement. Others were heavier, designed for strength and durability.

Most of them were the same length, but sometimes they’d be a bit longer or a bit shorter. Some were stiff in the joints, others incredibly fluid. Some had limited range of motion, and others could bend in directions organic arms couldn’t.

He learnt to adjust to changes in his limbs quite easily, and adapt his fighting style to accommodate them.

But he never thought he would have to adjust to being back in his child body.

He looks down at his body, underfed and caked in dirt, and feels a vague sense of amusement at how small and weak he was back then. Or right now? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know why he’s so small. Doesn’t know why he’s standing in his old home on Tatooine.

Doesn’t know why he isn’t dead.

Wasn’t he just on the Death Star with Luke? Wasn’t he just drawing his last, failing breaths?

So why’s he here?

And why is his mother watching him with worried blue eyes?

“Ani. Ani! Are you okay?” She kneels in front of him and reaches out for his shoulders. His arm twitches, his instincts telling him to push her off, to crush her windpipe, to snap her neck. He doesn’t.

He looks at her blankly. Is this a dream? Is she part of his imagination? Is this the afterlife?

She shakes his shoulders lightly, and it _feels_ real. So it’s not his imagination. And it doesn’t seem to be the afterlife either, since this doesn’t feel like a punishment or a reward. Being back on Tatooine is definitely awful, but at least he has an entirely intact body.

He has no idea what’s going on, so he’s just going to play along for now.

“Everything is fine.” What is his normal routine at this point in his life? Also, what point of his life _is_ this? “When am I due at Watto’s?”

His mother gives him an odd look. It must be concerning to her that her child has developed such odd behaviour out of seemingly nowhere.

“In a few minutes.” She looks like she’s about to say more, but he turns and makes for the door before she can. He doesn’t want to stick around and answer questions, not when he’s busy trying to figure out what the kriff is going on.

The streets look the same as he remembers; dusty and boring. The people also look the same; exhausted and suspicious. Anakin probably also looks the same to them; young and innocent. But he’s not.

He’s had 13 years of Jedi training and 23 years of Sith training. He is a mechanic, a pilot, a war general, a sociopath, a powerful Force user, and a lightsaber duelist.

And his ankle hurts. Why does his ankle hurt?

He pauses in the street and squats down to inspect his ankle. There’s a small cut on the side of it, poorly treated and still sluggishly dripping blood. He remembers that cut. He sliced his ankle on something sharp in Watto’s shop, and his mother didn’t have anything to treat it with.

How old was he when he got it? He was… eight? Yeah, eight. Which means he’s gone back 37 years.

He straightens again and continues walking, ignoring the sidelong glances other people on the street give him. His stride is too confident for a slave to have, and his stance too military for a child to know. But he doesn’t change it. This is him, and if people don’t like it, then they can bugger off and never see him again. Or die. Either of those are good solutions.

When Watto’s junk shop comes into view, he pauses outside it. What is he doing? Working for his master, like the slave child everyone thinks he is? He clenches a fist and narrows his eyes. He won’t serve Watto. He won’t serve anyone, ever again.

So what’s he supposed to do? This seems to be a second chance at life, so what’s he going to use it for? What can he do? What hasn’t he done? What does he want to do?

Well, he can do anything. He knows the major events, both political and military, for the next 37 years. He can survive Clone Wars and Sith Empires. He can beat the greatest Force users, duelists, and pilots.

He’s trained under Jedi and under Sith, he’s overthrown a dictatorial Emperor, he’s enforced the law of said dictatorial Emperor, he’s fallen in love (even though it didn’t end well), he’s battled Separatist droids, he’s lead clone armies, he’s marched on the Jedi temple, he’s killed Jedi younglings (probably not something he should be proud of), and he’s waged war across the galaxy.

He’s done everything fun and been everywhere interesting.

So what’s he supposed to do the second time around?

A gust of wind picks up the sand on the street and carries it past him. He watches its passage down the street, and the way people absently cover their faces so they don’t breathe it in.

Whatever he’s going to do, it won’t be on this planet. Which means removing his slave chip. Kark, he forgot about that.

Digging into the Force, he grabs a handful of the Dark side and tugs it to him. A voice whispers in the back of his mind of _living freely, going everywhere and doing everything_. Every emotion he’s feeling sharpens and becomes stronger than before.

He pushes the thoughts and feelings aside, and ignores it, like he’s learnt to do over the years. He needs to focus on the chip under his skin.

The Force wraps around the chip, and slowly pulls it out. He doesn’t make a noise at the pain. Doesn’t even wince. He’s lived in constant pain since that day on Mustafar, and he’s used to it now.

It doesn’t look like anything particularly dangerous. It’s small and smooth, and could be a datachip to an unexperienced eye. But Anakin has seen the damage it can inflict. The explosion might be small, but it’s enough to tear through muscle and render a limb defunct.

Letting go of the Dark is hard, and feels like coming down from an adrenaline high. He suddenly realizes that all those sharp emotions he felt were being influenced, and he remembers why he doesn’t like constantly being so emotional.

Then, he reaches out again and grabs onto the Light side.

Unlike the Dark, the Light greets him with whispers of _comfort and apathy, enjoying every day as it comes and not caring about anything else_. His emotions fade, until he can barely feel them, and can almost forget they exist. He doesn’t care about anything anymore; can’t really remember why he was so confused in the first place.

The Light’s whispers are harder to push away. Not just because he’s less experienced with it, but also because the lure of apathy is stronger to him than the lure of passion. He’s always cared strongly about everything, so the thought of _no longer feeling and letting everything pass by_ is quite enticing.

But he can’t listen to the whispers.

He channels the Force into the wound on his shoulder, and closes the small puncture where the chip exited. The flesh underneath it knits together as well, leaving no sign that the chip was ever there.

Pulling away from the Light is like trying to get something sticky off your fingers. He can’t pull away from it, because the damn thing tries to hold onto him. So he does the metaphysical version of wildly flailing your hands in the air. He thrashes at the Light, and violently extricates himself from the Force.

The whispers stop. It’s like a sedative clearing, and he can feel and think properly again. He wasn’t aware that everything was so fuzzy before, but now everything is clearer, and he’s realized how much the Light was affecting him. His emotions embrace him with a comforting familiarity. He doesn’t want the apathy the Light offers.

Recovering from the emotional double-punch takes a second. His emotions and thoughts have just been pulled in two wildly different directions one after the other, and he’s trying to settle back into the middle ground.

One thing is made abundantly clear to him after his venture into both sides of the Force; he doesn’t want to sit around and do nothing, and he certainly doesn’t want to do the _right_ _thing_. His moral compass is either very screwed up or gone entirely, and there’s no way he’s pretending to be a nice person.

Nuh uh. He had enough of that with the Jedi.

The Jedi’s whole ‘no attachments’ and ‘no emotions’ weren’t even that bad. He could understand why they would strive for apathy. No, the worst thing was how uptight they were. He was never allowed to speak back to anyone, never allowed to play practical jokes, and never allowed to annoy the kriff out of anyone.

Then again, the Sith didn’t really let him do any of that either.

So what’s stopping him now?

He looks up at Watto’s shop, and thinks of the Toydarian waiting for him inside. He said he would never serve another master. But isn’t trying to please people the same as serving them? Why should he keep doing what he was taught, when he so badly wants to do the opposite?

A grin crosses his face. Yes. That’s exactly what he’s going to use his second chance for.

Forget being a strategist or a fighter or a mechanic or a murderer or a pilot. He’s good at all of those, but none of them give him quite the same sense of fulfillment he gets from his true calling.

Because annoying people is fun. Talking back is fun. Playing pranks is fun. And most importantly; causing confusion and exasperation is fun. That’s what he wants to do with his second chance at life.

He wants to become a cryptid.

The first step to achieving that, he supposes, would be to tell Watto where he can go shove it.

Turning back to the junk shop, he pushes open the door and steps inside. Watto is standing by a bench, fiddling with some spare parts. He doesn’t seem to have heard Anakin entering.

“Watto.” When the Toydarian turns at the sound of his name, he’s met with the power of the Dark side. It’s pathetically small, only a fraction of what Anakin can actually do, but it still sends Watto crashing into the shop wall.

A ripple in the Dark pins Watto to the wall, while Anakin casually approaches, enjoying the fear radiating from his prey. He’s always wanted to do this. Always wanted to show the sleemo that _no one_ can own him.

“What are you doing, boy? Let me down!” Anger and disgust surge in him. He’s had to listen to Watto all his life. This’ll be the last time Watto ever tries ordering him around. So why not make it memorable?

Pulling the Dark back to his side, he drops Watto onto the floor. “Try running. Try fighting. I dare you. Neither will work.” The Dark shakes the room as he speaks, and his voice isn’t the voice of a child. It’s the overlapping voices of a thousand monsters, come for their vengeance.

Watto drags himself across the floor, heading for the counter. The control for the slave chip is in there. It won’t do any good, even if he does reach it, but the mere thought that this pathetic karker is trying to _control_ him makes him even angrier.

He storms across the room to Watto, and brings a leg down on Watto’s back. The crunch of bone is nearly drowned out by the scream of pain.

Flipping Watto over, he leans down and _snarls_ in his face. The sound echoes menacingly around the room, and Watto flinches back.

Anakin’s Force signature lashes out, and digs tendrils of Darkness into Watto’s feeble mind. His natural defences are shredded apart under Anakin’s ferocity, and his thoughts and emotions spill everywhere under the attack. He screams, but Anakin doesn’t stop.

The Darkness keeps digging in, keeps ripping out, and keeps infusing itself deep into Watto’s mind. It shows him his worst fears, and conjures up new nightmares that the mortal mind can’t conceive on its own.

On the streets outside, people turn fearful gazes on Watto’s junk shop, and kids burst out crying. The Dark energy washes in waves over Mos Espa, and the citizens shiver as they feel it.

Something is shifting. Tatooine trembles, and then slowly cracks like a rock under too much pressure. A deep gorge opens across the planet, splitting deserts in half and sucking in unlucky Jawas and Tuskens. Cities quake and citizens scream.

Inside Watto’s junk shop, Anakin goes still. Watto is twitching beneath him, his Force signature leaking like a puddle around him. But it’s not the catatonic state of the Toydarian that’s stopped Anakin.

It’s the singing of kyber.

He follows the gentle twists in the Force, and finds the source. A cave of kyber, here on Tatooine and unearthed by the quake he caused. It sings a wonderful melody to him, unlike any he’s heard before. It’s somewhere between Light and Dark, somewhere between passion and apathy.

And it’s singing to _him_.

It doesn’t promise peace, and it doesn’t promise power. It touches his Force signature gently, like a friendly pat on the shoulder. His Force signature reaches back out to it, and gently wraps around it. It shows him the path across the desert to its cave. It wants to be found by him.

He lets go of Watto, not caring if the sleemo lives or dies.

The planet is slowly calming down, slowly setting itself back to normal. He carefully wraps his Darkness back around it, but softer this time, and he removes the last tremors from it, sets the deserts right again, and stops the storms. He apologises for his anger.

Tatooine forgives him.

The kyber calls to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup MoFo's  
> I've already got some more chapters written and waiting for editing, so they should be up soon.  
> Feel free to comment your complaints or criticisms, even if they're really rude; I got tough skin ;)  
> This is also my first attempt at the Star Wars fandom, and I haven't watched the movies in years, so there might be some inaccuracies. Feel free to point them out.


	2. Pulling a Sam Jackson with Anakin's Lightsaber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Author pulls a Sam Jackson with Anakin's Lightsaber  
> And Anakin enjoys messing with the Jedi, while his Mother is just trying to be supportive.

_29 BBY, Four years after Chapter One, and Three years after The Phantom Menace_

“Can I interest you in anything, sir? Perhaps a weapon?” The shop keeper eyes Obi-Wan as he passes by, in the way someone always does when sizing up a potential customer. It sparks annoyance in him, but he releases it to the Force and prepares to politely decline the man.

“I have recently acquired a weapon I think you’ll be very interested in. I’m sure a fine Jedi such as yourself would benefit greatly from it.” The shop keeper pulls something out from under the counter, and holds it out to Obi-Wan for inspection.

Is that…

Obi-Wan gently takes the object, and examines it carefully. The Force is singing eerily around the weapon, and he can feel the buzzing of a kyber crystal inside it. A visual inspection of the hilt confirms it.

It’s a lightsaber.

“How’d you come by this, if you don’t mind me asking?” A shopkeeper shouldn’t have a lightsaber. It’s quite possible he took it from a deceased Jedi.

The shop keeper smiles. It’s an oily, dishonest smile, one native to every businessperson Obi-Wan has ever met. “Ah, secret of the trade I’m afraid. Go ahead, turn it on.”

Obi-Wan tests the hilt. It’s very comfortable, and sized about right for most adults. Composed of unidentifiable metals carefully crafted together, with no obvious way to open it for repairs. It’s curved, which he’s seen a few times before. Strong, yet surprisingly light.

It’s quite intricate, obviously handcrafted with great attention to detail. There’s a small symbol carved near the top; two circles over a line with slight scratches to indicate downward motion. A binary sunset?

He presses the power button, and is left dumbfounded when the blade ignites.

It’s curved. The hilt’s angle continues all the way through the blade, in a beautiful katana.

It’s also orange coloured, which he hasn’t seen in a lightsaber before. It reminds him uncomfortably of the Zabrak he saw on Naboo three years ago.

He gently swings it a few times, trying to get used to the feel of it. So very different from a standard saber. The colour is mildly distracting, but mostly the way the blade _curves_ is off-putting. He’s never seen a lightsaber with a curved blade before. He didn’t think it was possible. Now here he is with a lightsaber katana. A lightkatana?

“You like?” The shop keeper smiles at him, and Obi-Wan is pulled away from his awed inspection of the weapon to look at the alien.

He turns the lightsaber off and studies the hilt again, trying to judge its age by the design. It’s quite smooth, and all the metal segments intersect at right angles and run in parallel lines. Definitely recent, and quite unique. “What can you tell me about it?”

The shop keeper’s greedy eyes flash in the artificial lights of the Coruscanti streets. He leans forward on the counter and gestures at the lightsaber. “One of a kind. Has an anti-tampering technology, so it can’t be reverse engineered. Someone tries taking it apart, and it’ll self-destruct.”

The shop keeper mimes an explosion with his hands and an accompanying sound effect, which sprays spit across Obi-Wan’s robe. He ignores it.

“And it’s designer?”

He sees the shop keeper’s expression close off a bit. Ah. A secret of the trade, then. That must mean he bought it from the same person who designed it.

Someone designs a lightsaber with a technique no one else can do, makes it so no one can figure out how it’s built, and then sells it to a somewhat respectable shopkeeper on the upper levels of Coruscant, one who happens to live quite near the Jedi temple.

Oh, no, there’s nothing strange here at all. Definitely not.

He should show this to the council.

“How much do you want for it?”

Okay, in Anakin’s defense; he didn’t mean to invent a revolutionary new way of constructing lightsabers. It just sort of… happened.

He originally planned to get only one or two crystals from the kyber cave on Tatooine. Instead, he ended up leaving with a small bag stuffed full of the little karkers. All of them orange. Why was the entire cave filled with orange crystals? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.

The parts necessary for constructing a lightsaber were easy enough to get. If he had deigned to follow the law they might have been harder to get, but as it was he had no trouble. A few junk dealers are currently out of business, as a result, and the people of Mos Espa are terrified of him.

Except his mother.

Oddly enough, she doesn’t seem to care that her son suddenly started talking like an adult and flaying people’s minds. She started treating him a little more maturely, yes, but she didn’t stop playing her role of mother.

“Anakin, you need to eat or you’ll drop dead.” Like that.

“I am capable of surviving several weeks without sustenance.” He doesn’t look up at the doorway, where he knows she’s standing. His eyes stay trained on the small components he currently has in his hands.

Her Force signature twists slightly in a mild spurt of annoyance, but then smooths out to motherly concern again. They’ve had this argument frequently during the past four years, and she already knows all his arguments.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re in my house, which means you follow my rules, and my rules say you need to eat at least one meal every day.” And he already knows all her arguments.

Before he can reply, the Force sends a surge of warning, and he realizes the components in his hands are about to go _‘bye bye cruel world’_. He floats it up and away from himself, and lets it detonate harmlessly in a corner of the room.

His mother is rolling her eyes. He doesn’t need to look behind him to be able to tell, because he knows her well enough to predict her reactions. Any second now she’s going to start complaining about his use of explosives in lightsaber construction.

“I don’t know why you insist on putting bombs in all your weapons.” Called it.

“I’ve told you; I don’t want people reverse engineering them.”

“So making them blow up is the solution?”

“Yes.” He stands up from his chair, and stretches his back out with a series of pops and cracks. His mother’s Force signature winces in discomfort at the noise. “I need to get hold of a ship to leave the planet with.”

“Where are you going?” His mother pushes off from the doorframe as he passes, and follows him out to the kitchen. He keeps half of his senses attuned to her Force signature to monitor her reactions, and the other half sweeping the surrounding houses for any sign of danger. His physical senses are put to use finding a suitable meal.

“Not quite sure yet. I need to find the location of a bounty hunter, then have a conversation with him. After that I’ll float around the Mid Rim for a while, and maybe see if I can trigger a Force vision of the Jedi temple, just to see what those karkers are up to these days.”

His mother’s Force signature flashes in rebuke, but she doesn’t say anything out loud. She’s used to his swearing and back-talking. “I don’t suppose this bounty hunter is one of your contacts?” There’s a note of disdain in her voice, which is mirrored in her Force signature.

Sighing, he gives up the search for a meal and turns to face her. “He’s not, actually, but I’m hoping to make him one.” From the way her Force signature is warping unhappily, she wants to complain about his criminal underworld activities. She doesn’t, though, just steps forward to prepare some food for him, since he’s clearly incapable of doing it himself.

There’s a beep from his pocket, and he pulls out his comlink, which has an incoming call. “One of my contacts. I’ll take it in my bedroom.” He can feel her acknowledgement through the Force, so he steps into his bedroom and answers the call with audio only.

“Skywalker! Good to know you’re still kicking. Thought you might have finally upset the wrong person.”

Key’arv. One of Anakin’s criminal contacts and information dealers. Also known as Quinlan Vos. But Anakin’s not supposed to know that, because as far as Vos is aware, Anakin’s just some kid who overhears things he really shouldn’t and sells them to people who are interested.

“I always do upset the wrong people, Key’arv, I just make sure not to get killed by them.” He picks up the ruined pieces of his attempt at a lightsaber battleaxe while he talks, and puts them in the scrap pile in the corner of the room. “What can I do for you?”

Vos laughs, then seems to sober up a bit. Anakin always hates talking to people over communications, because he can’t use their Force signature to figure out what they’re really thinking. “Asking about a weapon. Thought maybe you’d seen or heard something around the place.”

“I see and hear a lot of things in a lot of places, Key’arv. You’ll need to be more specific.”

“A lightsaber.”

Anakin stills. Either some idiot lost their lightsaber and is trying to track it down, or the Jedi found one of his.

“If you’re looking for a lightsaber then I recommend the Jedi. Most of them carry lightsabers, and if you can kill them you can take it. Or just steal it and run, that works too.”

He imagines how Vos might look right now, and figures it must be somewhere between disturbed and angry. “No, not one of those. A curved lightsaber.”

So it’s one of his. Which one, though? He sold a katana to a shop keeper right outside the temple, hoping the Jedi would find it, but it’s also possible they found a different one before that. “What kind of curved lightsaber?”

“A katana with an orange blade.” Ah, so they did find it.

“It wouldn’t happen to have a binary sunset on the hilt, would it?”

There’s the faint sound of someone sucking in a surprised breath. That’s odd. Normally Vos is better at hiding his reactions. When his voice comes though the comlink again it sounds carefully neutral. “Yeah, it does. How do you know?”

Anakin grins like the cat that found the canary sleeping in its food bowl. “I’ll tell you what I know about it, if you tell me who has it now.” Anakin has never given out information without expecting some in return. Vos hasn’t tried giving him false information yet, and Anakin is interested to see if he will now. The katana is definitely with the Jedi, but will Vos tell him that?

There’s a pause. Vos must be considering if it’s worth telling Anakin. “Last I heard it was with the Jedi.” So he decided to tell the truth. For that, Anakin will also tell the truth. Well, some of it at least. After all, ‘the best lies are the ones with partial truths’.

“There’s been several orange lightsabers with unusually shaped blades. From what I’ve heard, they all have binary sunsets carved on the hilts. They’re also designed to self-destruct if someone tries opening the hilt. I know of at least one person who lost their hands trying to see if that was true.”

“How long have you been hearing about them?”

“Tell me when and where you heard about that katana and I’ll tell you.”

There’s a sigh, which distorts over the communication. Vos shouldn’t be upset; he knows this is how the arrangement works. He’s never complained about it before. “I heard about it on Coruscant earlier today. Apparently the Jedi got it yesterday, at least. Before that, I think it was still somewhere on Coruscant.”

“The lightsabers have all shown up within the past year, and all over the galaxy. I can’t find any pattern to their appearance or distribution.”

The Force shivers in an odd way and draws Anakin’s attention. He closes his eyes and gently drifts into the Force, searching out the communication relay the call is coming through. The Force is lingering around it, leading him on like a trail of will-o’-the-wisps. Following it leads his mind to Coruscant, and into the Jedi temple, where Quinlan Vos is standing in a room with Obi-Wan Kenobi and holding a comlink. Ah, so that’s who was failing at concealing their emotions.

He leaves a small part of his focus on the room, but turns his physical senses back to his body and the comlink in his hand. Vos’s voice is coming through the comlink again, but there’s a faint echo through the Force from the room in the temple. “Do you know the current locations of any of them?”

Anakin’s eyes fall on the deactivated lightsaber clipped to his belt, and the binary sunset carved on it. It’s the only one of his lightsabers he’s kept for himself. The rest of them he distributed throughout the galaxy, and tried to keep track of by exchanging information with various criminals. Apart from this one, he knows the exact locations of two others. The katana, at the Jedi temple, and one more.

But should he tell Vos? The whole point of distributing the weapons was to annoy the Jedi, which will work better if they find a few more of them. But he also doesn’t want the Jedi to start using his weapons. Then again-

Argh! He needs to stop thinking things through, and start doing whatever he wants. And right now he _really_ wants to send Vos into a dangerous situation so he hopefully gets killed. “You’re in luck. But what are you going to give in return?”

There’s no sound through the comlink, but the part of his Force presence still lurking in the Jedi temple hears Vos talking with Obi-Wan. _We need that location. We can’t keep giving him information, what if he gives it to a Sith or someone? We need to if we want to find more of those lightsabers._

They don’t seem to be reaching a decision anytime soon, so he speaks up. “I’d be willing to give you a name, a location, and a weapon type, if you give me the last known location of a particular bounty hunter I’m looking for.” At least this way the information will actually be helpful. He could, of course, track the bounty hunter down without any help, but it’ll be a lot easier if Vos has a starting point for him.

_We can’t give some criminal kid directions to a bounty hunter. Do you want to find that lightsaber or not?_ “What’s the bounty hunter’s name?”

“Jango Fett.”

_Why’s a kid looking for Jango Fett? I don’t know, but I don’t really want to ask him. Do we even know where Fett is? Yeah, he recently finished a job on Corellia. I don’t think we should tell the kid that, though. We could give him a fake location? Yeah, okay._

“Last I heard he was on Chandrila.” Anakin would be able to recognize the lie even if he hadn’t been eavesdropping on their conversation. Vos was a good liar, but he wasn’t as good as Anakin.

“I happen to know that an orange scimitar is on Nar Shaddaa, in the possession of Aurra Sing.”

_Kriff, Aurra Sing? Of course she has one of these new lightsabers. I’m going to tell the Council about this. Okay, I’ll finish here then meet you outside the Council chambers._

“As always; a pleasure talking with you, Skywalker.”

“I wish I could say the same, Key’arv. If you want to continue doing business with me, you best never give me false information again.” He ends the communication before Vos can say anything, and reaches to the Force to feel for Vos’s reaction. Surprise, and a mild note of panic. Vos is quick to get it under control, though, with the famed Jedi stoicism.

Anakin scoffs, and withdraws from the Jedi temple. His Force presence pulls back into his body, and he blinks wearily as he adjusts. What was he doing before Vos called? Oh yes, getting food.

He pushes the door open and finds his mother preparing to leave. She notices him exiting his room, and gives him a quick smile. “Hey Ani. There’s a plate on the table for you. I’m meeting with Cliegg; I won’t be back for a few hours.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, he sits down at the table and picks at the food. He’s still not used to actually being able to eat things. To be honest; he kind of preferred getting nourishments through IV’s. Swallowing is overrated.

“Make sure you eat all of that. And don’t go getting into any trouble when you go to meet up with that bounty hunter person.”

He rolls his eyes, and feels every bit the twelve-year-old he looks like. “Mother, the only reason I’m meeting with him is because I intend to cause trouble.” He’s too busy eating to watch for her reaction, but if the flashing of her Force signature is any indication; she’s frowning.

“Well, just don’t die, yeah?”

He puts down his food for a second so he can turn around and give her a deadpan look. “It’s a bit late for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's only been about a day since I published the first chapter, but I already had this one written up and waiting, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to publish it now.  
> I have a few more chapters finished after this one, but I'll probably wait a bit longer to publish them so the chapters are spread out more.  
> Please comment with any reviews, factual mistakes/grammar mistakes, and questions. I'll try to answer any questions without ruining future chapters too much.  
> ALSO:  
> I haven't decided what Anakin's weapon will be yet, so if you have any suggestions PLEASE put them in the comments. Thanks!  
> Next chapter:  
> Jango Fett


	3. Well At Least He's Self-Aware if Nothing Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Only Redeeming Quality of the Protagonist is how Self-Aware he is  
> and Jango Fett is so confused by this 12 year old

Jango Fett wasn’t difficult to find. He was still on Corellia, and figuring out which continent and which city and which part of town and which bar was a simple matter. Because Fett might be one of the best bounty hunters of his time, but Anakin is the most powerful Force user alive. (And he’s really good at getting people to talk, but that’s a slightly less impressive title).

Fett is exiting a bar when Anakin arrives, so he follows him around the corner and into an alley. Subtlety? Never heard of it. Which is why he’s not surprised to find a vibroblade moving towards his throat when he turns the second corner.

Without even needing to draw on the Force, he ducks the knife and moves behind Fett, putting a bit of room between them. It’s tempting to fight Fett, but that wouldn’t be a great way to start this meeting.

“Who are you?”

“Skywalker, at your service.”

“You got a first name?” Anakin scoffs at that. Were he still a slave or a Jedi or a Sith, he might have tried to hold back the retort. As it is, he lets loose with glee. Oh, if only Obi-Wan could see him now. He’d be so disappointed.

“Most people have first names; it’s kind of how we tell each other apart.” The bounty hunter is wearing his helmet, so Anakin can’t relish in what is likely an annoyed expression, but his Force signature does radiate strong suspicion.

Good. He should be wary.

“Why are you following me, Skywalker?”

“Because I’m a huge fan of yours.” He injects a heavy dose of sarcasm into his voice, and projects his amusement through the Force. Fett is mildly Force sensitive, so he’s subconsciously detecting Anakin’s emotions.

Fett steps forward threateningly, and raises his vibroblade again. Anakin laughs lowly at that. Fett isn’t anywhere near his level of skill, with or without the Force.

“I have a gift for you. I think you’ll need it.”

Fett’s signature changes to confusion. Anakin could easily peek past his mental walls and see all his thoughts, but it’s far more fun to guess what he’s thinking. And right now he’s probably wondering why a random cloaked person is offering him a gift.

He pulls two objects out from his cloak pocket, and holds them out towards Fett.

Fett warily takes them with his free hand and examines them. Anakin knows what he’ll find. One of them is small enough to be concealed inside an adult hand, the other large enough to comfortably be held. They’re both designed to look like inconspicuous spare power cells, except for the binary sunsets carved near the top and the power buttons.

When Fett presses the buttons they ignite orange blades, each about the length of the hilt. They don’t make that iconic _whooshing_ noise lightsabers are known for.

Fett’s Force signature has a hint of excitement in it; the kind of excitement a kid feels when given a new toy, which also happens to be the same kind of excitement a bounty hunter feels when seeing an epic new weapon. “Lightsaber knives?”

Anakin makes a vague affirming sound. It’s been a long time since he’s engaged in casual social interaction, so he’s a bit rusty at it.

“Completely silent, and the glow has been muted to be less obvious. Perfect for casually sliding it into someone’s spine without being noticed. The larger one can be used against a lightsaber if you’re good. The smaller one is a suitable size for throwing. More effective than any vibroblade.”

The excitement in Fett’s Force signature is growing the longer he examines the knives. Anakin doesn’t blame him; they’re awesome as kriff. “The orange colour?”

“Just the colour the crystals happened to be. Luckily, it’s a colour the Jedi don’t use often, so you won’t be mistaken for one of those sleemos.” Fett is vaguely amused at that.

“And if worse comes to worst, you can use them as grenades. If someone tries opening them to look at the insides, you’ve got about two seconds before they go _boom_.”

He mimes an explosion with his gloved hands, which feels ridiculously childish for a 49-year-old to be doing. But he doesn’t care. He’s here to have fun, not to be taken seriously.

“How big of an explosion?”

The most curious thing has happened. Fett has long since put away his vibroblade in favour of inspecting his new lightsaber knives, but he’s maintained a degree of suspicion in his Force signature. Up until now. Now there’s nothing there but excitement, some lingering amusement, consideration, and… concern? Yes, there’s some level of concern there.

“Not much. Enough to blow the lock off a door, or take off someone’s hands if they’re holding it. The entire knife will be destroyed, though.”

“How old are you?”

Kriff. Fett’s feeling of concern has peaked, and Anakin realizes it’s directed at him.

“That’s not a question I’m going to answer.” That’s pretty much just admitting that he’s a kid, but he doesn’t really care. He’s not here to exchange life stories with Fett; he just wants him to accept the knives. Why do people always insist on asking these kind of questions?

“Do you want the knives or not?” Great going Anakin, that definitely doesn’t look like you’re avoiding the conversation.

Some of Fett’s wariness has returned now. Definitely nowhere near as bad as before, but still definitely there, lingering on the edges of his Force signature. “What do you want in return?”

Ah. Here it is. The question he’s been waiting for. “Consider this the beginning of a mutually beneficial arrangement. You need help or information; I’ll give it. I need help or information; you’ll give it.”

Fett must be eyeing him from behind the mask. Most bounty hunters deal in favours and debts, not… whatever this arrangement is. “And how could you help me, _ad’ika_?”

Anakin doesn’t speak Mando’a, so he has no idea what _ad’ika_ means. It sounds cute though. And Fett said it with a note of… fondness, almost. Is it an endearing term? Did the most feared bounty hunter just give him a pet name? He better not have, or Anakin will eviscerate him.

“You already know I’m good at building weapons. I also know a dozen different ways to sneak into the Jedi temple, and nearly as many to get into the Senate building unnoticed. I can go toe to toe with any Force user, and I know every competent spy and information dealer in the galaxy.” Geez, it’s like writing a résumé.

“You’re a Force user?”

“Really? _That’s_ what you focus on?” There’s a slight spark of distrust blooming in Fett’s Force signature. Uh oh. Does he hate Jedi (which is completely understandable) and thinks that all Force users are Jedi? Anakin needs to find a way to make it absolutely clear he isn’t associated with them. “Yeah. I’m the kind of Force user that Jedi tend to kill on sight.” That’ll work.

Fett’s signature radiates indignation. “But you’re a kid!”

Oh. _Oh_. This is brilliant. This is _wonderful_. Anakin loves this. Just because he looks twelve, he can get away with nearly _anything_. People don’t just underestimate him; they also give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s going to use this.

“Jedi don’t care.” He considers projecting sadness through the Force, but the only thing he’s feeling right now is glee, so it wouldn’t work too well. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I know how to avoid security and I know how to fight. The Jedi can’t catch me. Hopefully.”

Fett’s Force signature is sympathetic, and Anakin resists the urge to snort. He’s got the sucker wrapped around his twelve-year-old finger.

“Either of us need help or info, and the other gives it. No tallying debts?”

Anakin nods, then sticks a hand out. Fett shakes it. “Deal.”

They quickly exchange contact details, then Anakin turns and begins leaving the alley. He’s either going to collect the ship he came here in or he’ll steal a better one. Then he’ll kill a few people here and there and maybe try triggering a Force vision of the Jedi temple.

But something makes him stop just inside the alley. No, not something. _Someones_.

He’s not a nice person anymore (if he ever was) and he certainly doesn’t help people out of the kindness of his heart, but he also remembers what it’s like to not have a choice. Some dark, withered corner of his sociopathic heart thinks that _maybe_ , he should help get people out of a similar situation. People he used to know.

“Fett?” He turns around and looks at the bounty hunter, who hasn’t moved from his spot near the building’s corner. “When you get back to Kamino, you might want to sit down and have a proper conversation with one of the clones. Ask them what they’d want to be if they had a choice. Something tells me you’ll find they’re also ‘just a kid’.”

Fett’s Force signature zaps in surprise, but Anakin’s already left the alley and merged with the crowds on the street. No one can see under his hood, so no one knows that he’s grinning mischievously.

Another tenuous ally to be added to his list. He’s not quite sure who it’s an ally against, though. The Jedi? Fett does hate them, even more so now that he’s under the impression they go around murdering kids for their religious differences.

Maybe Anakin should find a way to further that impression. Just to bring Fett further onto his side. Not because it’s fun or anything. Definitely not.

He ended up stealing a ship. The one he’d brought to the planet was great, but then he saw an even better one, and he decided to take it. Life is simple when you’re a kleptomaniac.

Once he’s in hyperspace he leans back in the pilot seat and closes his eyes, sinking deep into the Force.

For a while he just floats aimlessly, letting thoughts come and go, and adjusting to the feeling of the Force swirling around him. Then it starts condensing, and he finds himself sliding away through the galaxy and gradually becoming aware of physical existence.

The walls of the Jedi temple materialize around him, and soft voices drift over him. A twinge in the Force directs his attention to a familiar item; the orange-bladed katana he crafted a few weeks ago. It’s in the hands of Mace Windu, surprisingly, who is dueling with Shaak Ti.

While Windu is usually the better duelist of the two, he’s put off by the unfamiliar weapon. Anakin can see all the ways he’s stepping wrong and when he doesn’t utilize the shape of the katana properly. If he were physically present, he might tut like a disappointed grandmother and start correcting Windu’s mistakes.

Windu and Ti are talking about something, most likely the weapon, but Anakin can’t quite make it out. He hears all the words properly, but they wash over him with no meaning and he can’t focus on them. The downside of having so many Light side users in one place is that any Force visions nearby tend to take place in the Light side. Hence the apathetic quality to the vision.

The Force pulls him back and away from the temple, and instead he’s in the office of the Supreme Chancellor, aka Darth Hideous. Count Doofus is there too, and they’re talking. He can hear it now, though, because the entire office is awash with the Dark. How the Jedi fail to sense this, Anakin isn’t sure.

“A curved lightsaber? Well… this is interesting.” A cold smile slides across Darth Hideous’ face, and he reclines in his chair. “It seems there’s a new player in the game.”

Everything warps again, and Anakin is treated to a beautiful view of Quinlan Vos sitting on a toilet. Oh, that’s gross. That is _so_ gross.

Sliding through the wall to escape the horrifying sight, he finds Obi-Wan Kenobi sitting in the pilot seat of the ship and occasionally adjusting the controls.

Huh. They must be going after Sing.

The space around Kenobi warps slightly, and a Force ghost flickers into existence. Qui-Gon Jinn smiles at Kenobi and tries to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but it passes right through. For a second, Anakin thinks that Jinn will see him. Can he be seen when he’s Force spying? But Jinn doesn’t turn to look at him. Reaching out, Anakin lightly prods Jinn in the back. He doesn’t react.

Heh.

Taking advantage of what is likely the only opportunity he’ll ever get, Anakin punches Jinn. His fist just passes right through, of course, but it’s still quite satisfying. He’s been wanting to do that for a long time.

The Force warps again, and the scene changes. Countless more faces and places pass him by. Some of them are gone too quick for him to see many details, but others stick around long enough for him to collect information. Most of the information is valuable enough to sell to various criminals, while some is more… personal.

Like the images of his mother, having dinner with Cliegg Lars, both smiling and happy. Padme Amidala is on Naboo, talking with a person Anakin doesn’t recognize. She also looks happy. Ahsoka Tano is in one of the crèche rooms in the Jedi temple. She seems grumpy about something, but Anakin doesn’t really care enough to stick around and find out what, so he slides away.

The Force ripples gently as he passes through it, and the scope of the universe plays behind his eyes. All of existence itself is open for him to view. He can feel the breathing of every star and the heartbeat of every planet. He’s gliding on metaphysical wings through eternity.

Like a sleeve catching on a door handle, he’s jerked to a sudden stop when he hits a snag. Annoyance turns to curiosity, and he narrows his presence down to see what it is. It’s not a planet. It doesn’t really seem to exist in one place. And its Force signature is unusually strong for a non-living entity.

Mortis.

Three bright presences peak out curiously at him, glimmering like tiny comets against his supernova presence. The first is calm and considering. The second is burning hot and passionate. The third is cold and uncaring.

The Father. The Son. The Holy Spirit. (Nah, just kidding. It’s the Daughter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I've worked out a bit of a schedule for chapter publication.  
> New chapters will hopefully be up every Wednesday. That'll be Wednesday evening for Southern hemisphere and Wednesday morning for Northern hemisphere. Probably. I don't know; I'm not a timezone expert.
> 
> Mando'a translations, according to mandoa.org:  
> ad'ika - Little one/kid (ah-DEE-kah)
> 
> Next Chapter:  
> Aurra Sing


	4. I Highly Recommend Using Mandoa.org While Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Author Uses a Lot of Mando'a  
> and Yes, My Girl Aurra Sing is a Muthafrickin Badass

Obi-Wan grunts as he collides with the ground. The air deserts his lungs, and his ankle screams out in agony. Maybe he’ll stay here for a minute. Just until he can breathe again properly.

The hissing and fizzling of a lightsaber catches his attention. Quinlan is still fighting Sing. He needs to go and help, or Quinlan will be dead meat. Worse than dead meat; a smoking pile of scorched roadkill. Obi-Wan chuckles at the mental image.

Kriff, is he concussed?

He heaves himself upright, and ignores the waves of pain radiating from his ankle. He’ll shut up and deal with it, at least until this fight is finished. Then he’ll collapse on a chair somewhere. Or a bed. A bed would be preferable. A bed the size of a swimming pool made entirely from pillows.

Yep. Definitely concussed.

Calling his lightsaber to him, he turns back to where Sing and Quinlan are fighting on the other side of the roof. Quinlan is on the defensive; waiting for Obi-Wan to get back in the fight so they can team up on her. He should do that. Yep. Doing it now.

Careful to keep weight off his injured ankle, he rejoins the fight and starts attacking at Sing’s back. All his attacks are deflected though, and she comes at him with a barrage of fast and hard strokes.

Despite it being two on one, Sing is winning. She’s about evenly matched with both of them in terms of skill, but her lightsaber gives her an advantage. It moves through the air completely silently, and doesn’t even make noise when it collides with theirs.

Obi-Wan didn’t realize until now just how much he depends on the distinctive whooshing noises to tell where the enemies lightsaber is and how fast its moving. It’s disorienting to be able to see a lightsaber but not hear it, and he would think he had lost his hearing were it not for the sound of his own lightsaber.

And then there’s the curve.

Sing’s scimitar curves at the end. Not much, but just enough to create a few awkward instances where his and Quinlan’s lightsabers got slowed down inside that curve, and they barely managed to bring them back in time to defend from Sing’s next attack. From the smug grin on her face when it happens; she’s well aware of how much they’re struggling.

The pessimistic corner of Obi-Wan’s brain wonders if Sing will have an extra two lightsabers by the end of this fight.

He ignores that corner.

There’s a slight break in the fighting, as Sing backs up a bit to keep them both in front of her. Quinlan looks over at Obi-Wan, and gives him a look that screams ‘we’re screwed’. Obi-Wan, in turn, gives him a look that more calmly says ‘we should leave before we’re killed’.

Quite bravely, they turn and run.

“Aww, why are you running?” Sing laughs and gives her scimitar a twirl, before she takes off across the roof tops after them. “We were having so much fun!”

Obi-Wan pulls out his comlink as he runs, and quickly contacts his astromech. “R4, you need to bring the ship to us.” The comlink goes flying from his hand as something slams into his back, and his body and the ground are reintroduced with a sickening crack.

Kark! That was his dominant wrist.

A foot presses against his back. Sing. He twists his head to look at her, and sees her scimitar raised and ready to decapitate him in the next swing. Her malicious grin sends a shiver down his spine.

Then a dark shape crashes into Sing and topples off to the side with her. Scrambling upright, he sees Quinlan and Sing rolling on the ground and trying to wrestle the scimitar from each other.

Where’s his lightsaber? Oh, there. He goes to call it back with his right hand, but the pulse of pain reminds him why that isn’t a good idea. Okay, left-handed fighting it is. Kriff, Sing is definitely going to be able to kill them now.

Quinlan cries out in pain and rolls away from Sing, leaving her free to stand up and turn on Obi-Wan. He hurriedly parries one of her strikes, and dodges the other. Quinlan is slowly standing up again, but he has a hand over his right eye and blood is dripping everywhere. He’s not going to be any help.

He blocks one of Sing’s strikes, and she puts extra weight behind it. He pushes back. The two blades are held in place by the strength behind each bearer. His crackles and fizzes with the contact. Hers is silent. He’s frowning in concentration. She’s grinning in satisfaction.

Wait.

Satisfaction?

Why’s she satisfied? That would mean she’s won, or is about to. But she’s…

Oh.

Kriff.

Sing suddenly _pushes_ , and Obi-Wan comes to the frightening conclusion that she wasn’t using her full strength before. Unlike him. His ankle buckles under the weight, and he breaks stance to jump away from her. Her scimitar cuts his left arm as he moves away. His muscles clench in agony, then his left hand goes slack and lets his lightsaber clatter to the ground.

Well.

He’s out of hands to fight with now.

And unfortunately for him, he was never taught to fight with his feet.

Sing stalks towards him. The scimitar swings threateningly by her side. Her smile is growing wider as she gets closer. Her dark, sunken eyes are watching him with the gaze of a hunter.

He’s concussed, with both hands out of commission and one of his ankles ready to join them soon. Quinlan’s face is covered in so much blood he probably can’t see anything, and he’s limping slowly toward Obi-Wan’s side. Sing is uninjured, with the exception of a small cut above her lip.

There’s a rush of air behind him, and the distinct sound of a ship at close range. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he sees the ship he and Quinlan arrived in pulling up next to the building, the back ramp open.

He spins and runs for the roof edge. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Quinlan doing the same.

Sing is lunging after them.

He pushes off the edge and uses the Force to boost his jump.

The ship is already starting to move away from the building.

Quinlan lands on the ramp safely.

Obi-Wan falls to an ungraceful heap on the ramp.

Sing is still standing on the roof, watching them as the ship moves away. She doesn’t look upset that they got away though. She’s smiling. Because even though she didn’t manage to kill them, she did thoroughly beat them. She knows how much better she is than them now. And she’ll come back to face them more often.

She won.

Quinlan collapses on the ground with a groan.

Obi-Wan manages to sit down in a somewhat more dignified manner, and leans his head against the cool wall of the ship. He should do something about his concussion, but he doesn’t have a hand free to do it with. “R4, head to the most trustworthy healer you can find, but not one on the same continent.” There’s an affirmative chirp, and the ship adjusts course.

“I think I found out why she has such long fingers.”

Obi-Wan raises his head slightly to look at Quinlan, and makes an inquisitive noise.

“For tearing out people’s eyeballs.”

Straightening in surprise, Obi-Wan takes a closer look at Quinlan’s face. “Did she pull out your eyeball?” Quinlan hasn’t taken his hand off his right eye since he was grappling with Sing, so it’s quite possible.

“I don’t know. It hurts too much for me to tell if there’s still something in there or not, and I don’t really want to take my hand off and find out.”

“I would offer to patch it up for you, but neither of my arms are working, so you’ll have to do it yourself or wait until we arrive at a healer.”

Quinlan doesn’t move from the floor, so he must be planning on waiting.

Obi-Wan slumps in his seat, and both of his arms twinge in pain. “Well. That was a complete failure.”

“Not quite”

He musters the energy to throw a glare at Quinlan, but it’s half-hearted at best. “How was it _not_ a failure? She stayed ahead of us the entire fight, badly wounded both of us, sustained practically no injuries herself, and then forced us to flee. Oh. And I lost my lightsaber.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a failure, just that it wasn’t _quite_ a _complete_ failure.”

“And what, pray tell, stopped it from being a _complete_ failure?”

“I got a vision from her scimitar when we were wrestling for it. That’s when she took the opportunity to try ripping my eye out.”

Obi-Wan lifts his head slowly, eyeing Quinlan doubtfully. Quinlan had tried using his psychometry on the katana, but all he’d been able to see was the shop keeper who’d had it previously, or occasional glimpses of binary sunsets. Some of the Masters thought the creator had found a way to shield himself from appearing in psychometric visions.

Yet another reason to find this mysterious lightsaber creator. Curved lightsabers _and_ psychometric shielding? Anyone who can invent both of those has to be smart. Dangerously smart.

“What did you see? Not more sunsets I hope.”

“No. I saw the person Sing got the scimitar from.”

“And? Who was it?” Obi-Wan glares at Quinlan, urging him to hurry up and just tell him already.

“Apparently, our dear Aurra Sing has a boyfriend. A fairly successful pirate in the Outer Rim.”

“I shudder to think of the person that would date Aurra Sing willingly.”

Quinlan laughs at then, then groans and gingerly presses a hand to his forehead in pain. Obi-Wan can sympathize. “As soon as we’re healed up and functional again, we should go to Florrum.” He tips his head to the side and gives Obi-Wan a dazed grin. “We need to talk to one Hondo Ohnaka.”

On a whim, Jango decides to take up Skywalker’s advice. He chances across a clone in an empty hallway, and is calling out to him before he can think better of it. “Alpha-26.” The clone snaps to a crisp salute at the sound of his designation. Jango holds up a pair of dice from his pocket. “You know how to play dueling dice?”

Alpha-26’s eyebrows scrunch briefly, before his expression clears again. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Jango gestures to a table off to the side. “Let’s play a few rounds.” He sits down at the table, and 26 slowly pulls out the chair across from him, then sits ramrod straight.

Jango lets the first few turns pass in silence, noting the stiff movements 26 plays with. He’s also sitting on the very edge of his chair.

Skywalker said to have a conversation. How’s he supposed to do that? The only thing he knows about the clone is details about his training. Somehow he doesn’t think that’s the kind of conversation Skywalker meant.

What would he do if this was a random stranger he needed to get to know? There’s the usual questions… ‘where are you from’, ‘do you have any family’, ‘what do you do in your spare time’, and so on. None of them really work.

Something relevant to the situation perhaps? That’s a bit difficult; nothing about the clone’s living situation is particularly good material for a conversation. Or… _most_ things aren’t. “So where’d you learn to play dueling dice?”

26 stiffens even more, which Jango didn’t know was possible. “The database, sir.”

Jango nods calmly, but inside he’s scrambling for a way to extend off that. He’s always been terrible at keeping conversations going. “The _Kaminiise_ do have a very large database. Makes me wonder where they got half their information from.”

26 bites his lip for a second, then speaks in a carefully neutral tone. “The _Kaminiise_?”

“It means ‘Kaminoans’ in Mando’a.” This is a subject he can easily have a conversation about. “You know any Mando’a words?”

“A few, sir. _Mirshir, aru’e, Nar dralshy’a._ ”

All things he must have heard during training. “You know any cusses?” 26 shakes his head. Jango grins slightly. Teaching kids to cuss is his forte. This will be fun. “Well, there’s _osik_. That’s a fairly basic expletive.”

26 sounds the word out, and Jango nods when he gets it correct. “Then from that you get _mir’osik_. That’s a low level insult.”

It flows easily from there; Jango listing out Mando’a swear words and insults, and 26 practicing saying them and using them in sentences. Jango laughs when 26 begins stringing them together without much care for their literal meaning.

Swear words turn out to be a great icebreaker, and pretty soon 26 has relaxed into a comfortable sitting position, rolling the dice with loose and easy movements. He even smiles a few times.

When they run out of swear words, Jango moves on to a few common words. Sibling, parent, friend, child. Greetings, farewells, manners, and introductions. Common expressions and sayings. Vows and traditions.

Most of it’s probably going in one ear and out the other, but they’re both having fun, so Jango doesn’t stop.

It’s not long before he finds himself telling myths and legends that he remembers hearing from his _buir_. 26 is no longer using ‘sir’, and he’s smiling openly. Some of the funnier stories get a laugh or two out of him.

During a lull in the conversation, Jango decides now would be as good a time as any. He rolls the dice, then casually pops the question. “If you could be anything in the world, what would it be?”

26 pauses and glances at Jango for a second. Jango doesn’t react, though, just keeps his eyes on the dice as he finishes his turn.

“I would…” 26 clears his throat for a second, and fidgets nervously. Jango thinks he looks almost… embarrassed. The hours of talking and laughing has helped him open up, though, so he goes ahead and speaks anyway. “I would have a girl body.”

Jango sucks in a breath in surprise. 26’s eyes go wide and he hurriedly backtracks. “I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to offend you!”

Before, Jango would have seen it as the clone modifying his behaviour according to people’s reactions, much like a droid. Now, with Skywalker’s words ringing in his head, he can see the kid’s pale face, and the slight tremor in his voice. ‘Just a kid.’

Kriff, 26 is scared. Terrified, actually. He thinks he’s done something wrong and is going to be punished. Or decommissioned.

Jango doesn’t see the programmed responses of a mindless automaton; he sees the fear of a 7-year-old kid who doesn’t believe they have any worth. Which is sort of true, at the moment. As far as the _Kaminiise_ are concerned, all of the children are as disposable as a common household item. They exist only at the behest of others.

This is wrong.

“No, it’s alright kid. You’re allowed to want that.” He smiles at 26, the same warm smile he gives Boba. “Would you like me to use girl pronouns for you?”

26 looks at him with shock that shifts into awe. “You would do that?” Jango’s previously frozen-over heart goes a little soft and goopy. It’s just two steps away from melting.

“Yeah. If you want to be a girl, then you’re a girl. No one can change that.” Except the _Kaminiise_. If they find out, they’ll decommission 26 for a ‘defect’. He needs to get her out of here before that happens.

26 grins at him, and for a moment she looks very much like the young kid she’s supposed to be. His heart is now only one step away from melting. “What about you? If you could be anything in the world, what would it be?”

Jango blinks in surprise. He’s always wanted to be a bounty hunter, which he already is. But saying he’s ‘happy with what he is now’ wouldn’t be true, because he isn’t happy with the current situation. He has a good job and a good son, but he’s also implicit in the slavery of children.

And that’s his answer, isn’t it? The things he doesn’t like about his current life are things that he has helped bring into existence. “I would be a better person.” He smiles wearily. “Guess I should start working on that, huh?”

26 grins brightly back at him. “I think you’re already doing a pretty great job.”

Oop, and there goes his heart; fully melting to a liquid and dropping to the pit of his stomach. Because Jango knows it isn’t true. As kind as she is to say it, she doesn’t realize that he’s the reason she’s never gotten to experience a real childhood.

If he’s the reason she hasn’t gotten one yet, then he needs to be the reason she gets one at all. He needs to start making right what he’s done wrong. For her and all her _many_ brothers, none of which have any freedom of will.

“ _Vor entye, ad’ika_.” He looks at 26 for a moment, considering what he’s about to say next. “If you ever want advice or help, Maze, I’ll be happy to give it.”

She scrunches up her nose in confusion, and watches him as he pockets the dice and stands up. “What’s _maze_? Is it another Mando’a word?”

“No. It’s your name.” Her jaw drops open in shock, and she aborts her motion to stand up, instead falling back into the chair. He laughs at that, and reaches out to ruffle her hair as he walks away. “ _Ret’urcye mhi_ , Maze!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! If you were having a terrible week, fear not. Chapter 4 is here.  
> Quinlan may or may not lose his eye. I haven't decided.  
> And you cannot convince me there wasn't at least one transgender clone. There's nothing in canon to suggest Maze might be transgender, but I figured; 'eh, this isn't canon'. So now Maze is transgender. If you don't like her, then don't worry, she probs won't be back much, if at all.
> 
> Mando'a translations:  
> Kaminiise  
> -Kaminoans (kah-MEE-nee-see)
> 
> mirshir  
> -shock/stun someone (MEER-sheer)
> 
> aru'e  
> -enemy (ah-ROO-ay)
> 
> Nar dralshy'a  
> -Put your back into it! Try harder! (NAR-drahl-SHEE-ya)
> 
> osik  
> -dung (OH-sik)
> 
> mir'osik  
> -dung for brains (meer-OH-sik)
> 
> buir  
> -parent/mum/dad (boo-EER)
> 
> Vor entye  
> -Thank you (vor-ENT-yay)
> 
> ad'ika  
> -Little one/kid (ah-DEE-kah)
> 
> Ret'urcye mhi  
> -Goodbye (ray-TOOR-shay-MEE)
> 
> Next Wednesday:  
> Mortis!


	5. No Offence to Sir Patrick Stewart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't mean to Offend Sir Patrick Stewart,  
> but it was for the sake of humour.

“Wait. Don’t say anything.” Anakin holds a hand up in front of the Father’s face. “Let me guess.” The Father’s cyan eyes narrow in displeasure, but he stays silent. Behind him, his children watch on with undisguised curiosity.

“You’re not a Jedi or a Sith. You’re something much more.” He clasps his hands behind his back and slowly circles the Father as he speaks. “You are the balance in the Force, between the Light and the Dark, and between your Daughter and your Son. You stay here on Mortis so you can control them and stop the universe from falling into chaos.”

He pauses and looks over his shoulder at the Father. “Have I gotten anything wrong yet?” The Father opens his mouth as if to speak, so Anakin holds up his index finger in front of the man’s mouth. “Nah ah ah! Don’t speak. Just nod. Yes or no?”

The father shakes his head ‘no’.

“Okay.” He turns and slowly moves towards the children, who are looking deeply perturbed by now. “You want to test me; to see if I can control both sides of the Force. AKA your children. Which” -he spins on his heel to frown at the Father- “is kind of bad parenting on your behalf. I mean, really? Controlling your children like that?”

The Father’s face darkens angrily and he goes to speak, but Anakin tuts in disappointment and continues talking. “If I _can_ control them, then you would ask me to replace you. Because you’re old and dying.” He gestures at the Father’s greyscale body. “Which is obvious just by looking at you.”

There’s a snicker from behind him, and he turns around to see the Son trying and failing to hold in his amusement. Anakin widens his circles to include the children, like a general giving his troops a severe reprimanding. Which he would know about, since he’s done that on several occasions.

“You can’t force me to stay here though, because it has to be my decision. So you intend to persuade me to replace you by showing me all the reasons why I need to do it, and giving me dire warnings about what’ll happen if I don’t.”

He pauses behind the Daughter so he can poke at her hair. She needs to brush it better; the entire thing is stuck together in one lump. Quite unlike the Son, who just… doesn’t have hair. Does he have chronic hair loss Sir Patrick Stewart style, or is it a fashion choice?

“There’s just one problem with this plan of yours.” He stops behind the children and looks between them to their Father. “Well, actually, there’s several problems. Would you like me to list them chronologically or alphabetically?”

“How do you list problems chronologically?” The Son turns his head slightly to look at Anakin, but otherwise doesn’t move from his shoddy attempt at a respectful military stance. The Daughter sends her Brother a mildly admonishing look, as though disappointed in him forspeaking out of turn.

“In order of when they occurred to me.” He shrugs lightly as he says it, then turns back to the Father. “So?”

“Chronologically, I suppose.” The Father looks less than happy at the ruining of his well-laid plans, but at least he’s cooperating.

“Good choice.” He resumes his circling, but this time he goes around all three of them. “I’ve already briefly touched on the first issue, but I’d like to revisit it, just because I think it’s bad enough to justify two talking-abouts. Your parenting.” He abruptly does an about-face so he can glare harshly at the Father.

“Frankly, it’s karking awful. You constantly control your children, dictating what they can and cannot do, and making them heed your every word. It goes beyond strict parenting and straight into borderline abuse.” The Father shrinks under his harsh words, and the children shift nervously.

“You are most certainly _not_ a ‘neutral balance’ between them. You show blatant favouritism towards your Daughter, by considering ‘peace and order’ to be superior to ‘violence and chaos’, when they are in fact both normal states of life. They should be accepted and celebrated in equal amounts.”

Another thought suddenly occurs to him, and he throws his hands up in the air in frustration. All three of the Force entities around him flinch at the sudden movement. “And ‘peace and order’ aren’t synonymous! Nor are ‘violence and chaos’! You can very well be peaceful and chaotic, or violent and orderly. It happens all the time. You ever seen a dictatorial empire? They’re scarily well organized, I promise you!”

He jabs a finger into the Father’s chest several times as he speaks, and the man stumbles back a bit. “If I were to have your job, the universe would be far different than it is now. I wouldn’t care how many people died or how many wars started. Both of those happen all the time! But just look at the Mandalorians; they’re still nice people despite all the murdering they do.”

Spinning around, he paces quickly between the Father and the children, his boots scuffing a line in the grass. “Frankly put; your philosophies are outdated and shortsighted. If you had just taught your children how to cooperate and affect the universe in equal measure, then they would be able to easily continue on without you. Instead, you taught them to be dependent on you, and to hate each other for nothing more than a difference in personalities.”

Both of the children are staring at the ground in what is either embarrassment or sadness. Maybe a combination of both? The Father is starting to look somewhat guilty. Good. He should be.

“On the topic of outdated philosophies; I’m still trying to decide how sexist it is for compassion to be represented by a woman and violence to be represented by a man.” The children look up at him with confusion, which changes to surprise and fear when his hard gaze meets theirs. “You two can look like anything you want, right? So why choose these particular genders?”

Swinging around, he marches straight back over to the Father. “Is it because their names are _literally_ ‘Son’ and ‘Daughter’? You didn’t give them much choice in their gender, did you? You didn’t even give them proper names!”

He cuts off abruptly and pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Under his breath, he mutters a quiet “and we’re back to your bad parenting again.” He’s sure all of them heard it though.

He moves back over to the children and makes sure to take some of the heat out of his voice. “If you chose these genders based on what you most identify as; then my apologies for questioning that. If you chose them based off what your Father told you to look like; then I suggest you do some research on gender stereotypes.”

The Force ripples as a new pulse of anger overcomes him, and the children’s confused gazes go fearful again. “Now,” -he marches back to the Father, who looks petrified- “we should talk about your _grand plan_ to dump a mortal person on this planet, expect your children to accept him as their replacement father, and hope that he _somehow_ , by some Force-forsaken miracle, manages to outlive them.”

Before he can further elaborate on that, another thought occurs to him. “Also, you people die eventually, right? Which means that sooner or later I’m expected to pop out two children to be the new representatives of Light and Dark.” He briefly thinks of naïve Luke and stubborn Leia, then banishes that thought. Now is not the time to examine the possible implications.

“Unless…” His eyes go wide in horror, and he slowly turns to look at the Son and Daughter. “No…” He glances between them. “You wouldn’t expect them to… to…” He doesn’t manage to finish it.

The Son and Daughter, though, catch on to what he’s trying to say, and start sputtering in disgust. The Father makes an affronted sound. Anakin sighs in relief. “Okay. So they’re not supposed to…” he makes a vague gesture to encompass everything that’s been left unsaid.

“Which means that you did” –he slides his pointer finger through the circle of his opposite hand’s thumb and index finger- “with some woman. Where’d she end up? Did she just up and leave as soon as the kids were born? Is she guarding some other realm somewhere else?”

The Father is still horrified from the previous topic, and the current insinuations only make his ears turn even more red. He stammers out a few sounds, but doesn’t seem to be able to produce a proper word.

Throwing his hands up in defeat, Anakin decides to move on to the next subject. “Okay, final problem!”

“Oh thank Force” the Daughter mutters, and Anakin gives her a considering look. She’d seemed quite stuck up to him, both in the last timeline and in the little he’d seen of her before he began his rant. If nothing else, at least this conversation seems to have helped remove the stick from where it was shoved up her-

“Please get it over with quickly so we can return to not being morbidly embarrassed.” The Son is blushing, much like his other two family members, but it’s even worse on him because he already has so much red on him. And it extends all the way over his scalp, which Anakin didn’t know was possible.

“You wanted to test if I could control both aspects of the Force, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just storms onward through the conversation. They aren’t the only ones eager to get this over with. “I’m guessing you were going to do that by putting me in a situation where I had to stop both of your children in order to save my friends.”

That’s what happened in the last timeline, at least. It was one of the major reasons he’d turned the Father down. The shifty look on the Father’s face confirms that _yes_ , he intended to do the same thing in this timeline. Anakin narrows his eyes.

“I’m not even going to tell you how karked up that is, because I’m sure you already know. You said you can’t force me to make my decision, but you are perfectly fine with manipulating me and endangering the lives of two innocents in the process.”

It reminds him uncomfortably of Darth Hideous. Maybe they should compete for the title of ‘Person Who Managed To Be The Most Manipulative Sleemo’.

Shaking off his wayward thoughts, he straightens his posture again and swings his gaze over the three people. The Father seems thoroughly chastised, and the children seem less… _them_ than before. More down to earth. Or, down to Mortis, as it is.

He’s made all his arguments, now it’s time for the conclusion.

See, Kenobi? He did listen during Language Class.

“I reject your offer. Not because I don’t want to do it, but because there are so many better alternatives. I’ve pointed out all your flaws, now it’s time for you to begin fixing them. You can’t drag others into your problems and expect them to fix it.”

He is such a hypocrite.

Then he strides away from them, heading to where he vaguely recalls having left his ship. When he’s far enough away his composure cracks a little and he grins smugly. That had to be the best closing speech he’s ever done, and it was improvised too!

Guess he did learn something from all those years with Kenobi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really been pushing the 'Teen and up' rating. I think I might need to raise it to 'mature' after this chapter. :D  
> Also, I've been writing faster than expected, so I'll probably be able to post 2 chapters per week for a while. (They're shorter chapters than usual, though).  
> Next chapter will be Saturday, and we'll see more of Jango.  
> Until then, mothers and fuckers.


	6. This is the Twentieth Time I've Renamed this Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have Renamed this Chapter So Many Times,  
> and a Lot of this Chapter Doesn't Align with Canon, but Let's Ignore That

He’s careful to route the communication through several different relays, so the Kaminiise won’t be able to monitor it. The blue hologram flickers into life and Jango is greeted with the sight of a young child, only about twelve or thirteen. He figured Skywalker was young, but geez. Why’s a kid his age distributing weapons to bounty hunters?

“Fett. I must admit, I didn’t expect you to call me quite so quickly.” And why does he talk so weirdly?

“I took your advice, Skywalker, and talked to one of the clones.” He watches as Skywalker’s hologram flickers and shakes, and there’s the sound of ships weapon fire in the background.

“And?”

“I want to break the kids out of here.”

Skywalker stays focused on the ship console, where his fingers are flying across buttons and levers. “How many?”

“200 107.”

Skywalker’s finger slips and an alarm starts blaring, but he shuts it off and turns an incredulous look on Jango. “200 107? There’s no way you’re going to be able to break that many kids out of there. Even if you could find a ship to carry all of them, you wouldn’t be able to get them out of the facility without the Kaminoans stopping you.”

The communication disappears for a second, and then comes back as audio-only. “Also, why 200 107? I thought the Kaminoans would have produced even numbered batches.”

Jango nods, then remembers that Skywalker can’t see him without the hologram. “They did. 200 000 of those are three year olds. 100 are the Alpha clones, they’re three and a half. The 6 Null clones are four years, and Boba’s also four.”

“And you want to get all of them out?” There’s the sound of a door opening on Skywalker’s end, followed by surprised shouts in Huttese and muffled grunts of pain.

Jango doesn’t want to know what the kid is doing.

“Yeah. Well, maybe not the Null clones. I think Kal Skirata has adopted them. But Boba and the other 200 100, definitely.”

A loud scream crackles through the communication and is followed by a thunk as a body hits the floor. The quieter second thud afterwards suggests that the head took a second longer to reach the floor.

“200 101 isn’t going to be any easier than 200 107. Doesn’t matter how good you are; you’re not going to be able to walk out of a secure facility with that many people.”

Jango groans and leans back in his chair, balancing it on the back legs. “What do you suggest, then?”

“You need somewhere to house them, right? Somewhere with plenty of space and good security. Somewhere that’s mostly automated, and designed to accommodate a large number of children. A huge stock of food, lots of teaching equipment, all the beds and clothes you need.”

The chair lands on all four legs again as Jango leans forward. “You want to kick the Kaminiise out of the compound and keep the kids there.”

“Bingo.” He hears pleas for mercy in the background of Skywalker’s communication, but they’re cut off with a crunch of bone. What the kriff is the kid doing?

“Okay, so instead of an escape plan, we need an attack plan. Do you have any ideas for that, Skywalker?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle that. You need to start figuring out how you’re going to care for 200 101 kids. Somehow I don’t think you’re going to be able to successfully single parent that many.” There’s the hiss of a door sliding open as Skywalker speaks, and then a string of faint curses in Huttese that end with a choking sound.

Jango puts his feet up on the desk and considers. He needs other people who are willing to help care for the kids. What about the Cuy’val Dar? Some of them seem to genuinely like the kids, while others are clearly only doing this for the pay.

“I have a few people in mind.”

“A few? I’d like to remind you that you’re attempting to undertake the raising of 200 101 kids. Even if you get 2000 people willing to help you, that’s still about a hundred kids each.”

The Cuy’val Dar only number 100, and no more than 70 are likely to want to help free the kids. That’s nearly 3000 kids each. It’s impossible to remember the names of that many people, let alone raise and teach them. Even if they get nursing and teaching droids to help, they’re not going to be able to pull this off. Not without more help.

“Okay, so I’ll need to look into getting more people to come help.”

Skywalker scoffs loudly. “That’s not the only problem, Fett. The Kaminoans facility might be well equipped, but it’ll run out of food eventually. You’re going to need to find a source of fresh produce and meat. You’ll need a huge number of droids for nursing, teaching, cooking, cleaning, and renovating. New beds, blankets, and clothes as they get older. Indoor décor and personal items? And if you plan to raise them as Mandalorians, then you’ll need armour and weapons and goodness knows what else.”

Jango groans and lets his head fall into his hands. When he decided to do something good and get these kids out of the hands of the Kaminiise, he didn’t realize just how much responsibility he was taking on. He hadn’t thought of half those things.

“Well you seem to be a good problem solver. Any ideas?”

Skywalker laughs at that, and Jango can hear the scraping of metal objects getting pushed around on his end. “I did just capture a pirate ship with an impressive amount of stolen loot in the hold. I plan to keep some of this for myself, of course, but you can have the rest. Ooh! Is that beskar armour?”

He glares at the communication terminal. “I hope you don’t plan on keeping stolen beskar’gam.”

“I don’t speak Mando’a, but if that means ‘Mandalorian armour’ then your answer is ‘no’. I may be a sociopath with multiple accounts of fratricide, but I’m also smart enough to know that I shouldn’t go around stealing Mandalorian armour. I’ll leave it for you.”

“Good.” He ignores the part about fratricide. “But I don’t think stealing already-stolen goods is a great way to provide for the kids.”

There’s a sigh, which distorts through the communication, and then Skywalker’s hologram flickers into life a second later. He’s got specks of blood across his face, which Jango doesn’t ask about.

“You’re not going to be able to keep livestock and crops on a water planet, unless you want to set up some fish farms. The oceans are inhabited by a sapient species, though, so unless you want to get arrested for charges of consumption of sapients you should avoid that. That means you’ll need to work out a deal with a nearby planet, and get your food from them.

“It could be cheaper to buy the raw materials needed for cloth goods and renovations, and then do it yourself. Teach the kids how to sew and build, and get some droids to supervise them. You could do the same for furniture and so on, and maybe for personal items.

“Extra droids can be stolen in small groups from different manufacturers to avoid detection, and I can reprogram them to remove spyware or change their purpose. I don’t know the first thing about Mandalorian cultural items, but something tells me it’ll be difficult to buy them in bulk. That’ll be up to you to figure out.”

Skywalker taps his chin and leaves behind a new smear of blood. “If you need beskar for making them all armour, then I could look into acquiring rights to a beskar mine, provided I’m allowed some of it. But that’s way-down-the-track thinking. For now, you look into getting help caring for the children, and I’ll deal with the Kaminoans.”

“And how do you plan on ‘dealing with’ them?” He looks at Skywalker suspiciously. He’d rather the kid doesn’t drag a group of mercenaries over here. It would be better for the compound to remain secret, at least for now.

“Oh, that’s quite simple, actually” Skywalker says, and a bloodthirsty smile crosses his face. “I’ll show up. I’m not as terrifying as I used to be, but apparently” -he gestures around him at the pirate ship- “I can still make people lose their bladders and beg their creators for mercy.”

“Just don’t give the kids nightmares.”

“No promises.” And with a mock salute and an osik-eating grin, Skywalker closes the communication.

Jango pinches the bridge of his nose. He has a headache now, thanks to Skywalker. That kid is a pain in the-

Someone knocks at his door.

“Me’copaani?” He kneads his temples while he waits for a reply, and it takes him a second to work out why it doesn’t come. Right. Soundproof walls. Where’s the button to open the door? They’re all marked in the _Kaminii_ language (which he doesn’t know) so he presses all the buttons around the general area he remembers it being and hopes none of them are dangerous.

The door slides open and an Alpha clone enters. Jango recognizes the kid right away; a high achiever who’s being monitored as a candidate for more specialized training. He’s making a good attempt at controlling his expression, but Jango can see the hidden nervousness. He tries to relax his expression into something a little friendlier, and ignores the light pounding in his head. “Alpha-17. What can I do for you?”

17 stands at military parade rest in front of the desk. It’s sloppy, though, and he’s fidgeting nervously. Jango doesn’t point it out. “I was, uh… talking to Alpha-26, sir, and he said… “

Jango considers correcting the pronouns, but decides against it. If Maze hasn’t told her brothers about her pronoun change, then it’s not his place. “He said you gave him a… a name. Sir.”

Ah. 26 and 17 are in the same unit, which means they bunk together. Maze must have been eager to tell her bunkmates about what happened. Question is; why is 17 talking to him about this?

Then it hits him. “Yes, I did. Would you like one too?” 17 nods and looks Jango in the eyes for the first time since entering the room.

If he gives 17 a name, then he’ll go back and tell all his bunkmates about it. The rest of the unit will be coming in here looking for names, and eventually the younger ones will ask. Before Jango knows it, he’ll have exhausted every culture and every language in pursuit of unique names for 200 100 children.

Doesn’t mean he won’t do it.

“Alright. You know how to play dueling dice?” 17 blinks, then nods slowly. Jango gestures to the seat at his desk, while plucking the pair of dice from his pocket and laying them on the table. “Sit down. I’m going to teach you some Mando’a swear words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, bitches!  
> I had to change the timeline and make all the clones a year older than they are in canon, because it Didn't Suit My Needs otherwise. (So if you can just ignore that inconsistency, that'd be great).  
> I would love to bring Alpha back, but I don't want to give him a name that he didn't have in canon, and it'd be a bit weird to just call him 'alpha' all the time, so this will probably be his only appearance.
> 
> Mando'a translations (in case u didn't have a dictionary open while reading this):
> 
> Kaminiise  
> -Kaminoans (kah-MEE-nee-see)
> 
> Cuy'val Dar  
> -a group of 100 individuals recruited by Jango Fett to help train the clone army. 75 of them were Mandalorians. (COO-ee-vahl dahr)
> 
> beskar  
> -an iron found on Mandalore and its moon Concordia, also known as Mandalorian iron (BESK-gar)
> 
> beskar'gam  
> -Armour. Specifically, Mandalorian armour, made from beskar. (BES-kar-GAM)
> 
> osik  
> -dung. Assumedly Mando'a version of shit (OH-sik)
> 
> Me'copaani?  
> -What do you want? What would you like? (Meh ko-PAH-nee?)
> 
> And in terms of chapter updates, I have no idea what's happening with that.  
> So... Wednesday updates are guaranteed. Saturday updates are a 'sometimes' thing.
> 
> And on Wednesday:  
> Attack of the Anakin


	7. Avoiding Writing Action Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I Cannot Write Action Scenes for the Life of Me,  
> so you get Baby Rex instead

CT-7567 shouldn’t be here. He’s supposed to be with his unit in the mess hall, but instead he’s in one of the unused back hallways; sitting on a broad windowsill and looking through the glass at the grey sky.

Normally after a training session he would have several new bruises, but today he only has one. Instructor Tervho had gone unusually easy on them. They were even dismissed early.

7567 had seen her glancing out the window a few times, and he got the sense she was waiting for something. Or someone. Was someone important due to arrive today? Maybe a new instructor?

He gently fingers the bruise around his eye, and winces at the soreness. It shouldn’t hurt more than any other bruise he’s ever gotten, yet it does. Maybe because it’s the first time he’s been injured by a fellow cadet outside of a training session. And one of his own unit, no less.

His stomach grumbles. He really should be eating, but he doesn’t want to face his unit. Or, more specifically, he doesn’t want to face the cadet who gave him a black eye.

No, he’s not hiding. He’s just… strategically avoiding confrontation.

So he turns back to the window, and keeps watching the grey clouds pouring out rain. It always looks like this on Kamino. He’s heard that other planets have blue skies, but he has a hard time imagining that. Kamino is just shades of grey. Light grey, medium grey, dark grey, and a black blur.

Wait.

A black blur?

He squishes his face against the glass and focuses on the blur. It’s broken through the cloud cover and is heading directly toward the landing pad. A ship, then. But it’s going unusually fast. Shouldn’t it be slowing down for landing procedures by now?

Then a red streak shoots through the sky towards the ship, impacting with a flash of light. Weapons fire! The compound is firing on the ship.

7567 straightens in surprise, and watches the descending ship. It’s still not slowing down. More weapons fire crosses the dark sky, lighting it up in blinding flashes. Pieces of debris fly off from the ship, and a trail of orange fire is burnt behind it as it falls.

They must be trying to destroy it before it reaches the ground.

He scrambles to put his helmet on, and then zooms in on the falling ship so he can see it better. It’s not a model he recognizes, but it looks heavily armoured. A door on the side of the ship slides open, and 7567 sees the silhouette of a person crouched on the edge.

The pilot is still in there!

The hallway turns red and the compound’s alarm blares to life. An automated voice announces that all cadets are to return to their barracks immediately. 7567 should listen to it. He should go back to his barrack and stay with the rest of his unit. But…

He doesn’t.

He stays by the window, watching the red flash across the sky and the orange burn ever downward. And he watches as the pilot throws themself out of the ship, falling alongside it towards the ground.

What are they doing? They’re not wearing a parachute. They won’t survive that fall. But the person begins falling faster and faster, overtaking the ship and angling toward the front door of the facility.

7567 holds his breath.

The person flips mid-air so they’re falling feet first, and then they meet the ground. 7567 expects to see their body splatter in a bloody mess, but instead they land in a crouch and seem barely affected by what should have been terminal velocity.

The ship collides with the landing pad nose-first and explodes. The person stands silhouetted by the yellow and orange flames.

7567 lets out a strangled sound. The sight is both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Reality kicks back in when the person starts marching towards the compound entrance. He’s seen that stride before, seen it when the trainers spar with each other, or when they knock an unruly cadet down a peg. It emanates danger and intent. Intent to fight.

The crash wasn’t an accident. That person, whoever they are, they’re attacking the compound.

7567 jumps off the windowsill and sprints down the hallways. He needs to get to his unit’s barrack.

The overhead lights turn off and the compound is plunged into darkness. He stumbles momentarily, then regains his footing and continues running. His helmet doesn’t have night vision, but he doesn’t need it. He knows his way around the compound well enough to get to his barrack even in the dark.

But why are the lights gone? To turn off every light in the compound, you would need to have access to the power room. And the power room is in the middle of the compound. The attacker can’t be there already. Unless…

_Unless they had inside help._

It’s a terrible thought, one he doesn’t ponder for long. He just needs to get to his barrack. Then he’ll be safe. He turns a corner and skids to a halt.

There’s lights further down the hall. Blue blaster bolts from Kaminoan weapons are firing at an orange light in the middle of them. A scythe. The orange light is the glowing blade of a scythe.

Whenever the blaster bolts hit the scythe a flash of orange light momentarily shows a dark figure. Then the bolts are deflected back at the Kaminoans, and they fall with faint outlines of blue light.

It’s a spectacle like no other, a bloodbath illuminated in blue and orange. It’s the slaughtering of the compound’s defense by a single person, and the finesse of the scythe-wielder against immeasurable numbers of enemies. It’s beautiful, and terrible.

7567 turns and runs. He’ll need to take a different route to his barrack. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears, and the sounds of blaster fire is still echoing down the hall after him. Is it just him, or is it coming closer? He needs to run faster, needs to-

He slams face-first into a person. There’s hands on his arms, restraining him. He scrambles at them, trying to break away. Are they another attacker? Are they the one who sabotaged the power? He won’t be taken by them. He won’t!

“7567, calm down.” He automatically goes still at the commanding voice, modulated through a Mandalorian helmet. It’s instructor Tervho. “You need to be with your unit.” She tugs at his arm, and leads him through the dark hallways. He stumbles after her, still breathing shakily. She doesn’t rush though. She’s calm.

He can’t hear the blaster fire anymore. He doesn’t know where the attacker is. What if they’re going straight toward them? What if they get killed, what if-

A memory comes back to him, from the training session this morning. The way instructor Tervho kept looking out the windows, waiting for something. As if she knew something would happen today.

She was going _towards_ the attacker, not away from them. She didn’t have any weapons out, so she wasn’t expecting to fight. She doesn’t seem afraid. She was coming from the center of the compound. From the power room.

He digs his heels in and pulls instructor Tervho to a stop. She tugs at his arm once more to try and get him to move, but he doesn’t. Instead he peers accusingly into the dark, into where he thinks her face is. “You’re working with the attacker.”

Her grip slackens for a second, then it tightens again. “Don’t be silly, 7567. Come with me.”

Tearing away from her grip, he backs away through the dark. “No. Where are you taking me? Why are you working with them? Are you trying to kill me and my brothers?”

There’s a frustrated sigh, then her hands are back on his shoulders. He pushes at them and tries breaking away, but it’s no use. He’s only two years old, and she has decades of training. But he won’t go easily. He’ll fight to his last breath.

“Is there a problem here?” He freezes at the voice. It’s so close behind him. Instructor Tervho tightens her grip and pulls him closer to her. He moves under her arm so she’s between him and the voice in the dark.

He can’t see the person who spoke, but he can feel their presence like a void in the darkness. They radiate danger. He knows it isn’t any of the instructors. It’s the scythe wielder. It’s the attacker.

“There’s no problem.” Instructor Tervho has a tense note to her voice. “Are you Fett's contact?”

An amused snort echoes through the hallway. The voice, when it speaks, sounds younger than before. The dark presence eases slightly. “Well duh. Who else would be dumb enough to attack the compound?”

7567 feels as instructor Tervho relaxes somewhat. “The power room and the communication room have both been taken. The cadets are all in their barracks. Well, all except this one.” He can feel eyes on him through the dark. He knows it isn’t instructor Tervho.

She said the power room and communication room had been taken. That means there’s more instructors helping the attacker. How many? How many are turning against him and his brothers? And why?

The darkness chuckles. “You should learn to conceal your thoughts better, 7567.” His eyes widen. “Go with Tervho. Everything will be explained to you shortly, I’m sure.”

How do they know his name? How do they know what he was thinking? Were they reading his mind? No, that’s impossible. No one can do that. … right?

Instructor Tervho shifts her weight and puts herself further between him and the dark void. “When you’ve finished having your fun, you should go to the far west side. I’m sure Fett will want to talk to you.”

The darkness gives a non-committal hum. “I’m sure he will.” Then the air loses weight, and 7567 can breathe properly again.

Instructor Tervho gently pulls at his shoulder. “Come on, 7567. We need to get to your unit.” He doesn’t resist. They walk in silence for a minute, then she sighs and begins speaking. “This is probably quite confusing for you.” Understatement of the year. “Do you like the Kaminoans?”

What kind of question was that? No one liked the long-necks. They were only ever seen when they were watching for cadets who weren’t performing to expectations, and then they’d take them away and never bring them back. Everyone was afraid of being taken by the Kaminoans one day. “No sir.”

“Neither do we. So we’re getting rid of them.”

Getting rid of them? No, murdering them. 7567 had no sympathy for the long-necks, and he wasn’t sad to see them die, but he was a bit nervous about the level of violence being used. Because if the instructors were willing to kill all the long-necks just because they didn’t like them, then…

“What’s going to happen to us?”

Instructor Tervho sighs. “We’re not kicking you out, if that’s what you were worried about.” He was actually more worried about being decommissioned, but he won’t tell her that. “There’ll be a lot of changes around here, and they might be frightening at first, but you’ll like them once you get used to them.”

He hesitates. She’s being surprisingly honest with him, but he’s not sure how honest he should be in return. “Will… will we still train for the Republic?”

“No.” Her hand moves from his shoulder to his back, and rubs a circle between his shoulder blades. It’s a strange feeling, but not unpleasant, so he doesn’t pull away. “You won’t have to train if you don’t want to. And the Republic won’t be able to make you do anything.”

He isn’t sure if he trusts her. It all seems a bit far-fetched. The person breaking into the compound is working with the instructors? Well, he’s already seen the evidence for that. But not having to train anymore? That’s… a bit harder to believe.

He’d love for it to be true, but he already knows that people don’t get what they want. Especially not him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because cool guys don't look at explosions, and even cooler guys have glowing scythes.
> 
> I don't know when the next chapter's coming out. Maybe on Saturday, maybe next Wednesday. It'll be a surprise for all of us, I guess. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Next chapter:  
> I lied to several people in the comments to bring you this plot twist and I am very sorry for that, but it was worth it.


	8. Does Anyone actually read Chapter Titles?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All this Effort being put into Chapter Titles, and for what?  
> And I decided to start giving characters trauma. You're welcome.

Florrum itself isn’t such a bad planet. A little bit hot, and a little bit bland, maybe. Certainly not colourful or lush. But it’s still suitable for construction and home to a number of foreign species.

Indeed, it’s the inhabitants that are the problem. Pirates and crooks without honour. Willing to do anything if it benefits them, and not holding themselves to any moral limitations or obligations.

Obi-Wan would rather be anywhere than here, surrounded by self-serving liars. But he doesn’t have much of a choice. If him and Quinlan want to find the Lightsaber Crafter, then they need to follow the chain of purchase as far back as they can. And that means talking to Hondo Ohnaka.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise indeed.” Ohnaka leans back against the bar and swirls his drink. Even from here Obi-Wan can detect the repugnant scent of strong alcohol. “It is always wonderful to meet others of a similar standing to myself.”

Quinlan offers a charming grin, one which fits in perfectly with the sleazy pirates they’re currently surrounded by. His eyepatch only furthers the look. “I’m flattered by your comparison, but I’m afraid I’m of a somewhat different profession.” He steps up to the bar and drops a few coins in front of the droid bartender, then points to a bottle on the back shelf.

Something so presumptuous might offend other criminals, but Ohnaka only takes another swig of his drink. The pirates in the bar watch out of the corner of their eyes. Obi-Wan keeps his hand near his waist.

“And what profession would that be?”

The bartender slides Quinlan his drink, and he drinks most of it in one go before answering Ohnaka. “The pursuit of knowledge.”

“Ah.” Ohnaka drains the last of his cup and turns around to order another. “Knowledge can be found in every corner of the galaxy. I’m surprised you would come to me for it.”

“You’re in one of the corners of the galaxy, aren’t you?”

Ohnaka laughs heartily, and spills some of his drink across the bar. “Indeed! You’re a wise one…”

“Key’arv.”

“Key’arv! You must find all sorts of knowledge with an attitude like that.” Ohnaka leans over the counter to grab a bottle, which he uses to refill both his and Quinlan’s cups.

Quinlan smiles into his drink. “All the best sorts.” He puts his drink down on the bar and turns to look directly at Ohnaka. “Including some that would be of interest to you.”

Ohnaka also puts his drink down and then straightens. He doesn’t look away from Quinlan. “And I’m sure this ‘corner of the galaxy’ also has much knowledge of interest to you.”

Obi-Wan lets himself relax a bit. The other pirates in the bar glance over once more, then move their hands out from under the tables and return to their business.

“Have you heard about the fancy new weapons going around? Glowing orange blades?” Quinlan sips at his drink again, and watches Ohnaka out of the corner of his solitary eye.

“Heard about them?” Ohnaka chuckles and also resumes drinking. “I’ve seen one. A fine piece of craftsmanship. And very dangerous, if you know how to use it.”

Quinlan nods at that, and pours himself another drink from the bottle. He’s been going through them quickly. “And have you heard about Aurra Sing?”

Ohnaka’s cup pauses halfway between the bar and his mouth. Then he recovers and takes a long swallow. “What about her?”

Picking up the bottle from the bar, Quinlan refills Ohnaka’s cup. “I’m more interested in hearing about who you got the orange lightsaber from.”

There’s a long silence as Ohnaka considers. Quinlan doesn’t rush him, just swirls his cup and watches the liquid slosh around inside. Then finally; “I didn’t get a name.” Ohnaka takes a sip, then smiles at Quinlan. “But I did get footage.”

“I’d be interested in seeing that footage. And while you’re getting it, I can tell you all about the latest exploits of Aurra Sing.”

Ohnaka whistles, and another Weequay from further down the bar comes over. Ohnaka mutters something to him, then the pirate nods and leaves through a back door. “A copy of the footage will be here shortly.” Ohnaka finishes off his cup. “Plenty of time for you to tell your stories.”

Quinlan nods and takes another long drink. “Aurra Sing was on Nar Shaddaa quite recently. Probably still is. She used an orange lightsaber to fight two Jedi. At once.” Another refill from the bottle. “And she won quite easily. Even got a new lightsaber to show for it.”

“Ha! She’s not called the ‘Jedi slayer’ for nothing.”

“Yes. And from what I hear, the Jedi council is quite aware of that. Now more so than ever. They’ll be going after Sing again soon, and there’ll be more than two.” Quinlan turns to watch Ohnaka for a second. “Next time you see her; you might want to tell her to watch her back.”

Ohnaka nods at that. Then he uses the last of the bottle to fill up both of their drinks one more time. He raises his cup in offer of a toast. “To the pursuit of knowledge.”

Quinlan smiles and clinks his cup against Ohnaka’s. “To the pursuit of knowledge.”

Then they both throw back the last of the alcohol, and only wince slightly at the burning on the way down.

The Weequay pirate comes back into the bar and hands a datachip to Ohnaka, who passes it to Quinlan. “The footage.” He smiles broadly. “May it give you much knowledge.”

Quinlan nods politely and steps back from the bar. “A pleasure meeting you, Hondo Ohnaka.”

Obi-Wan follows Quinlan from the bar, noting the slight sway to his walk. “You had quite a few drinks back there. You sure you’re still sober?”

“Hah, definitely not.”

Obi-Wan moves up beside Quinlan so he can glare at him. “I know for a fact that you can use the Force to raise your alcohol tolerance. So why didn’t you use it back there?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to.” Quinlan shrugs and loses his balance slightly, getting it back by clutching at Obi-Wan’s arm. Obi-Wan is tempted to shake him off and let him face-plant. It would serve him right for getting drunk. “Look, let’s not talk about my failings as a Jedi, because they are too numerous to count. Let’s just go back to the ship and watch this footage. And maybe get another drink.”

“Absolutely not.” Obi-Wan snatches the datachip from Quinlan and tucks it in the pockets of his robe, then starts dragging Quinlan towards the ship. “You are getting a cold drink and then meditating until you’re as sober as Master Yoda during a funeral.”

“How do you know he doesn’t drink before funerals? I would, if I had his job.”

“Then thank the Force you don’t have his job. The Order would be doomed.”

Quinlan doesn’t reply, and Obi-Wan quickly checks that he hasn’t passed out. No, he’s still awake. But he’s turned away so his undamaged eye can watch the horizon, and his face has closed off. Even his Force signature is unreadable.

Whatever. He’s probably just sad because he’s drunk.

_Except Obi-Wan knows that Quinlan has always been a happy drunk._

He pushes the errant thought away. Now’s not the time. They need to watch the footage and keep tracking the Lightsaber Crafter. That’s what the Jedi Order assigned them to do. That’s the first priority.

_Even higher priority than your best friend?_

Anakin is still covered in Kaminoan blood when he breaks into Jango Fett’s room. Well, it’s hardly a break in. All it takes is a wave of his hand and the door unlocks. Seriously. Security is so bad these days.

Fett is sitting on a couch, his arms wrapped around a small child with a mess of brown hair.

Anakin flops down on the couch opposite them, and pulls off his blood spattered gloves. His scythe hilt has blood on it too. He’ll need to clean it. “I took care of all the Kaminoans for you. It’s up to you to clean the mess, though.”

He leans forward so he can pull off his jacket, which is singed from when his ship exploded. A shame about that. It was a good ship. But he wouldn’t have been able to get past the defenses without sacrificing it.

Fett (the older one) is running a hand through his son’s hair. Ah… parenthood. “What are you going to do now?”

He shrugs, then leans back on the couch with a weary sigh. Mass murder is fun and all, but it always drains him of energy. “Dunno. Might look through the hangar for a good ship to steal. You do have a hangar, right?”

“Yes. Just don’t take the ones on the east end. They belong to the Cuy’val Dar, and they’ll murder you if you steal one of their ships.”

Anakin laughs. “They can try.”

There’s shuffling from the couch, and Boba’s head pops out from between Fett’s (the older one) arms. His eyes are red-rimmed, which contrasts with his scowl. “You’re a smug _mir’osik_ , aren’t you?”

A startled laugh escapes Anakin. “And you’re rude, for a two-year-old.”

“I’m four, actually, but I’m not surprised someone as obviously intellectually deficient as yourself would be unable to tell.”

Anakin raises an eyebrow and sits upright. Those are some big words for a four-year-old. “What’d they do, kid, upload a database into your brain?”

Boba rolls his eyes with all the irritation of an adult talking to a naïve child. Even though it’s actually the other way around. “No, I was given an education. Something which you clearly didn’t get.”

Oh, so that’s how he wants to play it, huh? “Well I’m sorry we can’t all be raised in high-quality slave factories where your every need is catered to like a spoiled little princess. Some of us were actually born out in the real world.” Fett (the older one) winces.

Boba’s lips twist wryly, like he’s holding in laughter. “A ‘slave factory’? I suppose that’s one way of putting it.” His head tips, and he gives Anakin a considering look that makes his skin itch. “And who are you, exactly?”

Anakin offers his most malicious grin, and lets his Darkness spread through the room. Fett (the older one) shivers lightly, and Boba looks like he’s on the edge of realizing something really important. “Skywalker.” Boba’s eyes bug out of his head, and he chokes on nothing.

That’s an unusual reaction.

Fett (the older- okay, never mind, this is too confusing) _Jango_ rubs a soothing hand over his son’s back and changes the topic. Boba just keeps staring at Anakin in mute shock. “While you’re here, do you mind reprogramming some of the nursing droids? It wouldn’t be much; just changing a few things to make them better for the kids and maybe have a bit of a personality.”

Jango pauses for a second, then tacks on; “a nice personality. Don’t make them sociopaths.”

Anakin breaks the staring contest with Boba so he can give Jango a mock offended look. “Who? Me? You wound me, good sir.” Jango rolls his eyes, but his Force signature sparks in amusement.

He rises from the couch and stretches out his back. There aren’t any popping sounds, though, which is disappointing. So he cracks his knuckles. Ah, that gets a few winces.

“If I’m going to reprogram your droids for you, I think it’s only fair I’m given a clean change of clothes and access to a fresher.”

Jango nods, and ruffles Boba’s hair as he stands up. “How about you put some socks on, Bob’ika, and then you can show Skywalker to the communal fresher room?”

Boba frowns as he fixes his messed-up hair, and leaves to what must be his bedroom. Once he’s gone, Anakin side-eyes Jango and tries to subtly interrogate him. “He’s very mature.”

Apparently that wasn’t very subtle, judging by the look Jango gives him. But he answers anyway. “Yeah. Boba’s always been like that.” There’s pride in his voice, but worry in his Force signature.

Anakin doesn’t get to say more, because Boba comes running back into the room, now with a pair of mismatched socks on his feet. Anakin waits by the door while the father and son exchange some words and a quick hug. Then he follows Boba through the hallways.

Boba gives him an odd look as they walk, and his Force signature remains suspiciously guarded. “Do you have a name other than ‘Skywalker’?”

“No, I have a serial number.” His voice oozes with sarcasm. Boba chuckles at the joke, which is the opposite of how Anakin expected him to react. Where’s the anger? Where’s the offence? The clones are technically Boba’s brothers, after all.

“Your humour’s not bad. I would have thought you’d be all stuck up and stiff.” Something about that entire sentence is off-putting, but Anakin can’t figure out why, so he ignores it.

“Nah, you kidding? I’m the life of the party!”

Boba glances back at him over his shoulder, and his smile rings all sorts of warning bells in Anakin’s head. “I know. You’re way better than you were as Darth Vader.”

“What the f-“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Did ya miss me?
> 
> Because I was a little unclear on this in the chapter: Quinlan's eye is permanently non-functional. I don't know if it got badly scratched or if it was ripped out entirely, and I'm not going to bother deciding. I'll leave that up to you.  
> Also, could someone please draw Quinlan with an eyepatch? Pretty please? I reckon he'd look badass.
> 
> And to the people in the comments who asked if anyone else came back and to who I said 'no, Ani came back by himself':  
> I'm sorry, please don't murder me. I hadn't yet thought of this plot twist when I answered those, so I was being honest at the time. 
> 
> Mando'a translations:
> 
> mir'osik  
> -shit for brains/shit head (meer-OH-sik)
> 
> Bob'ika  
> -Little Boba (boe-BEE-kah)
> 
> In three days:  
> A conversation between time travelers


	9. I don't know Anything about Programming so I made it all up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did like One Google Search and then just Bullshitted my way through the rest of the Technical Jargon  
> And Anakin using Mando'a is Character Development, Fight me on that

“So… second in command of a Galactic Empire. Must have been pretty awesome.”

Anakin doesn’t look up at Boba. He’s currently deep inside the circuitry of a Kaminoan droid, and any distractions right now could result in something really bad. Like Boba’s head getting sliced off because he annoyed Anakin too much. Or the droid blowing up. That could happen too.

“And now you’re, what? Twelve? Pretty big step down from Supreme Commander.”

“And you’re four. Don’t start a competition you’ll lose.”

“I don’t think I would lose. I went from a bounty hunter to a much younger bounty hunter. You went from Sith Lord, Galactic Conqueror, and Emperor’s Enforcer, to a… whatever the kriff you are now.”

One of the wires sparks, and Anakin hisses as his fingers are zapped. “I’m a failing mechanic, apparently.” He turns to look at the readings on the terminal, making sure the droid isn’t going to spontaneously combust on him.

“When did you get your first memory?” Anakin pauses with his fingers deep inside the droid’s processing unit, and turns to look at Boba. “I mean, when did you first start remembering the previous… life. Timeline. Whatever you want to call it.”

Anakin tips his head, as if looking at Boba from a different angle will help him understand the question. “Do you mean when I ended up in my child body? Four years ago.”

This time it’s Boba who looks confused. “Wait… did you just randomly wake up in the past one day?”

With a snort, Anakin turns back to the droid, and continues rewiring it. “Technically, I died one day, and then found myself in the past. Why? Is that not what you did?”

He carefully attaches one of the wires to the terminal station, and watches the new readings flicker to life on the screen. Ah. That’s the one he needs.

“No. I just sort of… slowly remembered it over time.”

Anakin studies Boba. “You’re four, right?” Boba nods. “Which means I came back here about the same time you were born.”

“But,” -Boba hoists himself up onto one of the other workbenches and swings his legs beneath him- “if we both travelled back to the same year, then why did you get all your memories at once, and I’m getting them gradually?”

“Why are you asking me?” Anakin opens up the coding on the terminal and begins flicking through it. “I’m not a temporal theorist.”

Boba scoffs. “Fat lot of use you are.” Anakin absently hums in reply, but stays focused on his work. Where are the behavioural files? Ah, there. He opens the file across three different screens so he can browse faster. Well, this is all a load of junk. He definitely isn’t the expert on parenting, but even he can tell how badly these nurse droids are programmed.

“Do you think anyone else came back?”

The question vaguely registers in the back of his brain, and he assigns a small portion of his attention to answering it. “Probably. Wouldn’t make sense for just us two to time travel.”

All of that programing is useless. That part could be reused, but it would need heavy editing. All the information banks are accurate, but they’ll need additions about emotional and psychological needs. What was it Jango wanted? Personality? Yeah, he’ll need to make that from scratch.

“So how’d you die?”

Ugh. “What is this, twenty questions?” He’ll start with the information bank, and then build situational responses and personality off of that. Where to get the information, though?

“Yes. And this is only my sixth question, so you need to answer it. How’d you die?”

“I got injured in a fight against my son, and then died after killing the Emperor.” He can find parenting books for humans on the HoloNet and then upload them into the droid. There’ll be a lot of conflicting information, so he’ll need to make sure the behaviour trees can adapt it to suit different children.

“Huh. I don’t remember how I died.”

He looks up at Boba for a second. There’s no harm in telling him, and no harm in not telling him. He quickly brings up the droid’s random probability selector. Heads he tells him. Tails he doesn’t.

Heads.

“You were eaten by a sarlacc on Tattooine.” He turns back to the terminal screen before he can see Boba’s reaction.

“Oh, I remember the sarlacc. Nasty bugger. But it didn’t kill me. Just hurt like hell and gave me full-body scarring.”

He slowly turns around to face Boba again, watching him through narrowed eyes. “You survived a sarlacc?”

“Yep.” Boba gives him a smug grin. “And then I heard that you’d died while I was out of commission. Imagine my surprise. Big bad Darth Vader, felled by the rebel boy you’d put a bounty on.”

Anakin wants to tell Boba to get lost. Wants to go back to ignoring him. He really should keep working on the droid. But… “Do you know… what happened to the ‘rebel boy’?”

Boba silently watches him for a long moment. Then, quietly; “Luke Skywalker was your son, wasn’t he?”

“Duh. You think it’s a coincidence we shared the same surname and kept chasing each other across the galaxy?”

“Oh, come on, you just ruined a really dramatic moment.” Boba scoffs and crosses his arms. “Yeah, I remember something about him working with the New Republic. And…” He squints at the wall in thought. “I think he was training Jedi?”

Surprise crosses Boba’s face, and he reaches up to hold his head. Is he… having a headache? A brain aneurysm? Should Anakin start performing funeral rites? But Boba just looks lost for a second, and mumbles a word under his breath. “Din.” No, not a word. A name. Anakin doesn’t recognize it though.

"You good there Fett?”

Boba’s head mechanically moves to look up at him, but he doesn’t seem to really recognize Anakin. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” he shakes his head. “Got a new memory.”

Anakin hesitates, looking between the code on the terminal screen and the lost look on Boba’s face. “Someone you used to know?”

“Yeah.” Boba picks up a tool from the bench and starts fidgeting with it. Anakin doesn’t tell him that it’s an electricity conductor. Let him figure that out for himself. “Doesn’t matter though. He’s in the past. They all are.”

What was that word Boba used earlier? Oh yeah. “ _Mir’osik_.” Boba’s head shoots up. “Where do you think you are right now?” Anakin rolls his eyes and spins the chair back to the terminal. What was he doing? Oh, yes. Parenting books. “You’re the one in the past, not them. They’re all in the future. And if I don’t kill you out of frustration, then you might live long enough to see them again.”

“It won’t be the same though. We’ll all be different people, and I’ll know them better than they know me.” Boba drops the electricity conductor abruptly and flexes his fingers.

“Hmm.” Anakin starts loading several parenting books into the droid, and looks over at Boba while he waits. “The downside of being a time traveler.”

Boba scoffs. “Is there an upside?”

Anakin grins. “Knowing what’s going to happen in the future is one.” He looks back to the terminal to make sure the new information uploads are properly organized.

“Speaking of; what are you planning on doing?”

“I’ve just finished updating the information banks. Now I’m going to change the droid’s functional routines and behaviour trees to accommodate that. Then I’ll start working on a personality.” He opens the behavioural files and gives them a brief look-through.

“No, I meant; what are you planning on doing with all your knowledge of the future?”

Anakin’s fingers pause over the terminal keys, and he slowly lifts his head to look at Boba. “Are you implying I have a plan?”

“You don’t get to be the feared leader of the Empire’s military by _not_ having a plan.”

“Okay, first of all.” He holds up his thumb. “I’m insulted that you think everyone was afraid of me. I’ll have you know that I was actually quite respected by my Stormtroopers.” Boba raises an eyebrow. “Secondly.” His index finger joins the thumb. “Many of my greatest battles were won by improvising. Third and final.” His middle finger comes up as well. “I’ve been doing my best to avoid having a plan.”

“Why?”

Anakin shrugs and turns back to the terminal. “I don’t want to be a protagonist.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to be a protagonist.” He starts changing the wording in some of the programming. “Or an antagonist. I’ve been both of those, and neither were particularly fun. Too much drama. So this time, I’m just going to be a cryptid.”

Boba snorts. “A cryptid? That’s not a thing.”

“It will be when I become one.” Anakin pauses for a second. “Actually, I think I already am one.” Then he resumes typing. He needs to remove all behaviour specific to Kaminoans. And program in a new owner. The Cuy’val Dar? Hmm, maybe not. Not all of them are staying. Jango, then, and he can extend allowances to other people as he wants.

“What do you mean, you ‘already are a cryptid’?”

Maybe put in a clause about alerting owners if a stranger comes near the compound. Not letting people near the kids who aren’t cleared by Jango. Killing Kaminoans if they step foot inside the compound. Self-destructing in the event of interrogation. Using bioweapons if-

His comlink is beeping. Someone’s calling. Key’arv. Why is Vos calling him?

“I’m going to need you to stop talking for a moment, Boba.” He puts the comlink on speaker and turns back to typing. “Key’arv. I’m surprised you’re calling back so soon.”

“So am I, Skywalker. But I need more information, and you’re the only one who has it.”

“You flatter me.” Boba stifles a snort in the background.

“That scimitar Sing has. She got it from Hondo Ohnaka. And he got it from you.” Anakin stops typing and slowly picks up the comlink.

“If you already knew that, then why are you calling me?”

“Because I need to know who you got it from.”

Anakin scoffs. “You don’t ‘need’ to know. You ‘want’ to know. And since I am, as you said; ‘the only person who has that information’, you might want to be a bit nicer about asking for it.” There’s the tail-end of a frustrated sigh through the comlink, one that definitely didn’t come from Vos.

Across the room, Boba raises an eyebrow at Anakin. Anakin shrugs in return.

“You’re right. I’m sorry for being rude, Skywalker. I just ‘want’ to learn this information quickly. Let me start again. Hi, how are you?”

Anakin puts the comlink back down on the table and resumes typing. “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘good’, but I would say I’m better than usual. There have definitely been several positive things recently, which I think currently override the general awfulness of my life. Knowing my luck, though, something will probably go very wrong very soon.”

He needs to improve facial recognition programs so the droids can tell all 200 101 children (200 107? He doesn’t know anymore) apart.

“I’m… sorry to hear that?”

Boba is wheezing with laughter and badly attempting to conceal it.

Make the discipline programs less severe. And he needs to get them to see the children as sapients, instead of products.

“Enough about me. How have you been?” Make them more adaptable to the children’s individual needs.

“I’m… good. Thanks.” _Lie._ The Force hisses in Anakin’s ears, and he turns to watch the comlink with narrowed eyes.

“Good? That’s not what you said before. You said you ‘wanted this information quickly’. You sounded quite stressed and in a rush.”

There’s a sigh through the comlink. “Stop toying with me, Skywalker. I just want the information. And I’ll give you some in return, of course.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re a bit out of luck there. You see; there’s no information I need nor want. Certainly nothing worth telling you who I got the scimitar from.”

Kark, he wasn’t prepared for this. If he doesn’t tell them who he got the scimitar from, then the Jedi will start coming after him. He doesn’t want that. That would make him the antagonist. Or… the protagonist? One of them. Either way, he doesn’t want that. So he needs to throw someone under the bus. He needs to send the Jedi on a wild goose chase that won’t lead back to him.

But who?

Someone the Jedi won’t believe when they deny knowledge of the weapon. Someone they’ll be willing to attack without much evidence against them. Someone who’ll be able to consistently fight the Jedi and survive. Someone who’ll keep the Jedi busy for a long time. Someone who’s been planning to take them on anyway.

Oh. Duh. The answer’s kind of obvious, actually. There’s only one group the Jedi dislike to that degree.

Now he just needs some sort of information to accept in return. He mutes the comlink and turns to Boba. “Quick. Information to ask for.”

Boba blinks and straightens abruptly. “Uhh… something really illegal. To make them think what you have is worth a lot.”

“Smart.” He turns the comlink back on and starts talking, uncaring of the fact that Vos is halfway through a sentence. “Listen up Key’arv. I’ll tell you who I got the scimitar from if you give me a list of all systems that have ceded from the Republic, ones that look like they’re going to, and ones that have cut off trade with separated systems.”

There’s silence over the comlink for a very long moment. A very, _very_ long moment. Then Vos’s voice comes back through, and he sounds resolved. “Okay. I’m transmitting the list now.”

Anakin connects the comlink to his datapad and watches as the three lists upload. They seem to be accurate at a quick glance. He’ll give them a more thorough look later.

“The scimitar was sold to me on Serenno by a human male. He went by the alias ‘Darth Tyranus’.” There’s faint background cursing through the comlink that cuts off in the middle of a particularly nasty word.

Boba is resting his forearms on his knees now, so he can lean forward to hear better. The two of them make eye contact as they wait for Vos to resume speaking, and amusement is passed between their gaze.

The comlink crackles to life. “Did you find out anything more about him?”

How much should he tell them? He could give them Darth Tyranus’s real name. But even if he were inclined to do so, they definitely wouldn’t believe him. They wouldn’t want to. They need to discover it for themselves.

“No. I tried, but I started running into political walls. Whoever this Darth Tyranus person is, he’s got a lot of friends in the Serenno nobility. He might even be part of it. It wouldn’t be the first time a politician has run a double life as a criminal.”

“Yeah. Thanks for all this, Skywalker. You’ve been a big help.”

“Ugh. The exact opposite of what I was trying to be.” Vos and Boba both chuckle at that. Anakin’s not sure why; he was being completely serious. “By the way; how’d you know I had the scimitar before Ohnaka?”

“We saw the footage of you trading it to him. You did a good job of covering you face, but I recognized your voice.” Kriff. It was his voice that gave him away? He needs to look at getting a vocoder.

“I suppose I’ll be hearing from you again, Key’arv. Until then.” He ends the call and chucks the comlink onto the desk.

Boba grins at him. “Now I know what you meant when you said you ‘already were a cryptid’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit late, because I completely forgot I was supposed to post today until just now. My apologies!
> 
> To clear any lingering confusion: Boba is still 'this' timeline version of him, just with scattered memories of the previous timeline. So he's a 4 year old kid who sort of remembers being a 40 year old man. His personality will be a mix of both of those.
> 
> Next Chapter:  
> You can have Trauma, and You can have Trauma, and You! Trauma for everybody!


	10. Abracadabra: Pulling Trauma out of an Empty Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Canon made a Minor Villain becomes a Traumatized Boi in my story,  
> and I toe the line between Platonic and Pre-Romantic.

Obi-Wan doesn’t announce his presence. He leans against the doorframe and folds his arms inside his sleeves while he watches. Watches as Quinlan works through his kata’s with increasing speed. Observes every time he misjudges distance and puts his foot wrong. Notices every instance he hesitates in a movement. Sees how his muscles are trembling from exertion. Or maybe from his emotions.

His long-time best friend is burning in the Force. His signature is leaking from his mental walls like an angry child’s would. It pushes at the ship’s hull and zaps in displeasure around Obi-Wan’s signature.

It’s angry, yes. Far angrier than any Jedi would consider allowable. But there’s something else beneath it. While the outer fringes of the signature repulse anything they touch and lash out at Obi-Wan’s calmer signature, there’s something hidden in the inner layers that is crying out to him. There’s something buried deep beneath the anger that is asking for help.

The anger makes him want to move away. Makes him want to get to a safe distance so he doesn’t have to feel such venomous rage through the Force. But that weak cry buried in his friend’s Force signature makes him stay. It brings him here to the training room where Quinlan has been for several hours straight.

It makes him stand like a silent sentry at the door as he watches Quinlan practice. As he watches him tire. As he watches him quake with fatigue and anger and that something else. As he watches him plant his feet harder and throw his punches quicker. As he watches his scowl get deeper every time he makes a mistake that he wouldn’t have when he still had both eyes.

Something’s going to break soon. Maybe the hull under the pressure of Quinlan’s anger. Maybe Obi-Wan’s mental walls under the assault through the Force. Maybe Quinlan himself.

But none of them are the first to break. The table is.

Quinlan overextends on the final kata, and breaks off halfway through a failed move to instead bring his fist down on the table. Then his other. He punches, again and again and again, until the table cracks down the middle.

The Force screams in anger. And also in… in pain. In sadness. In a deep well of loss. It rages and curses, and at the same time begs and pleads.

Obi-Wan pushes off from the wall, and slowly approaches Quinlan. He steps loudly enough to be heard, and retracts his mental walls just enough to make him detectable. Quinlan tenses.

What does he say? Does he tell Quinlan to release his feelings to the Force? That’s what the masters always told him when he was younger. Does he suggest they meditate together? That always helped him.

But he knows neither of those would help Quinlan. Quinlan has always been more emotional than other Jedi. And his years working undercover have only furthered that. This isn’t a problem that can be solved the Jedi way.

He gently places a hand on Quinlan’s shoulder, waiting to see if it will be pushed off. It isn’t. Then he gently presses his head against Quinlan’s.

It’s not a hug. Not quite a Keldabe Kiss, either. But it works. Quinlan trembles slightly, then leans into the contact and pushes his head more firmly against Obi-Wan’s.

They don’t speak. The only movement is the growing shaking in Quinlan’s chest. His breath quivers.

Obi-Wan moves his hand to rub a circle between Quinlan’s shoulder blades. He’s feeling very out of his depth here, but he doesn’t stop. This isn’t for him; it’s for Quinlan. He wants to do his best to be here for his friend.

A wet drop lands on Obi-Wan’s sleeve. Then another. He brings his other hand up to the back of Quinlan’s head and gently cards it through his hair.

He keeps his breaths deep and steady, even as Quinlan’s get quicker and lighter. He keeps his body still, even as Quinlan tremors and shakes. He stays standing strong, even as Quinlan sags in his hold.

And if he whispers the words that the Jedi forbid, if he bares his heart in the quiet of the ship, if he lets the emotions come out in a mix of every language he speaks… well, no one else has to know.

Even when every tear has been shed, and every word has been said, they still don’t move from where they stand with foreheads pressed together. They bask in the silence, in the warmth, and in the knowledge of not being alone.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier. About the Jedi Order being doomed if you were in charge.” Quinlan flinches. “You’d make a very good leader. You always do what needs to be done, and aren’t afraid of making difficult decisions. I don’t think I could do the same thing.”

Obi-Wan keeps carding his hand through Quinlan’s hair. There’s more that needs to be said, he knows. The pain is still buried inside Quinlan’s Force signature. With both of their mental walls down so far, he can feel for the first time how deep that anger and pain runs. It saddens him, at the same time as it terrifies him.

Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.

Quinlan is already angry. How long before he turns to hate? What is stopping him from continuing down the path to the Dark side?

Obi-Wan brings a hand to the side of Quinlan’s face, and gently touches the scarring visible around the eyepatch. Quinlan tries pulling away, tries turning himself so his wounded eye isn’t visible, but Obi-Wan doesn’t let him.

“It’s not a bad thing. To have scars. To be injured.”

“It was my fault.” Quinlan’s voice is scratchy, and he clears it before continuing. “I only got injured because I was an idiot.”

“Are you saying saving me was a mistake?” Quinlan goes to pull back, but Obi-Wan holds him in place and continues rubbing circles between his shoulders. “If you hadn’t stepped in when you did, Sing would have killed me. You saved me at the cost of your eye, and I can never thank you enough for that.”

This time it’s Obi-Wan who pulls away, just enough to make eye-contact with Quinlan. “Losing an eye doesn’t make you any less of a Jedi, even if it takes a while for you to adjust to the reduced vision. It doesn’t make you any less of a person, even if you have less body parts than the average human. And it certainly doesn’t make you any less of a friend, because I don’t pick my friends based on what they can do or what they look like.”

“Why…” Quinlan glances away and hunches his shoulders in on himself. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Why _are_ you friends with me?”

Obi-Wan gently pulls Quinlan back into a Keldabe Kiss, holding him on either side of his face. Both of them close their eyes. “Because I enjoy spending time with you, Quinlan. Being around you and talking to you makes me happy.” Obi-Wan gently brushes a thumb over Quinlan’s scars, and this time he doesn’t flinch away.

“You’re my best friend, Quinlan. And if you can’t see how amazing you are, and how good of a person you are, then I’ll see it for you. And I’ll remind you as often as needed, until you can see it too. I’ll always be there for you if you need me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Mortis moves so quickly, rushing through each day and season as though it fears it might not last long enough to see the next. Yet the Ones do not plan on going anywhere. They live to see millions of seasons and billions of days. Time around them moves so fast, and they live so slowly.

Sometimes they watch the haste at which Mortis grows and dies, and they feel like the universe is leaving them behind. Sometimes they feel as though they are wasting time by not living with the fervor that Mortis does. Sometimes they wish they had the lifespan of a mortal, if only so they could embrace each day as Mortis does; like something limited and precious.

Then they remember who they are, and realize it’s not possible. They aren’t simple beings existing in the universe. They _are_ the universe. They are woven so deeply into the threads of existence, they couldn’t simply live and die as everyone else does. They must endure and continue, as part of the foundation of the lives of everyone else.

It’s unfair.

The Son throws a rock off the cliff, as far as he can. He watches it arc down towards the valley, and disappear amongst the tree line. Then he turns around and picks it back up from where it’s respawned behind him. He throws it off a second time. And a third time. And a fourth.

“What are you doing?”

The rock slips from his hand and makes a pathetic tumble to the valley floor. He doesn’t turn to look at his Sister’s voice. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

“Not a very good one.”

“It’s better than familicide.”

“I suppose.” There’s light footsteps behind him, and the shimmering form of his Sister comes up beside him. She winds her arm back and launches a rock out across the valley, sending it further than any of his throws went.

“What are you doing here?” He picks up his respawned rock and throws it again. It beats his Sister’s throw by a few tree lengths.

“Looking for you. Obviously.” She throws her rock. It goes further than his. Again. “We need to talk.”

Another throw. Another high-score. “About what?”

“What Skywalker said.”

The rock shatters in his hand. “What about it?”

His Sister sighs and turns to face him. “He was right. We’re karked up.”

“Skywalker didn’t know what he was talking about. He was wrong!”

Her eyes narrow. “Really? So you have a name then? Father calls you something other than ‘my Son’?”

“Well, no.” He kicks a pebble over the edge. “But I don’t need a name. It’s not like I go around introducing myself to people often.”

“And Father supports who you are and allows you to pursue your interests?”

He scoffs. “In case you haven’t noticed; my interests tend to be on the more destructive side.”

“Because you’re the embodiment of Darkness. What are your interests supposed to be? Gardening? Baking?” She crosses her arms and glowers at him.

He’s the first to break eye contact. “Just because I was born with them doesn’t make them good.”

“No, but you can’t change them. Neither can I change my interests. But have you ever seen Father stop me from doing the things I’m interested in?”

His eyes burn red, and he throws another rock off the cliff. “I’ve never seen Father stop you from doing much of anything.”

“Exactly. We’re both his children. So why is it I enjoy living here, but you’re always angry?”

“I’m the embodiment of Darkness!” This time his rock hits a tree on the way down to the valley, and shatters against the trunk. “Being angry is my job description.”

His Sister slaps him.

“Ow!” He rubs gingerly at his cheek, which is turning red. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because you were being an idiot, and it made me angry.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s abuse.”

She rolls her eyes. “My point is; I’m the embodiment of Light, but I can get angry. I also know I can get scared, or happy, or hopeful, or confused, or surprised, or jealous, or bored, or disgusted. Are you telling me you’ve never experienced any of those?”

He looks down at the forest in the valley again, and watches as the season changes and the leaves wither and die. “No. I’ve felt all of those. But I’m angry more often than not.”

Her hands lands on his shoulder, and he tenses up. “I’m probably angry just as much as I am happy. Our emotions aren’t influenced by the Force. They’re influenced by our lives. Who we’re around, where we are, what we do. And if both of us are angry all the time…”

His chin drops to his chest. She doesn’t finish that sentence.

“We can’t change what we represent. But we can change our lives. We can make them something we’re happy with.”

“How?” He turns to face her, and stubbornly glares her down. “We’re aspects of the universe itself. We’re practically immortal. We wouldn’t be able to live with the mortals. But we can’t live with each other either. You make everything better everywhere you go, and I make everything worse. And our Father seems determined to not do anything.”

She grins, and the glint in her eye makes him wary. “Perfect. You can make as many messes as you want, and I can fix them all up when you’re finished. And Father can sit on the sidelines and watch.”

He laughs bitterly. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Maybe not. But we can still try.”

They glare at each other for several long minutes. The season changes around them again, and the trees down in the valley grow back their leaves. “You want to, what, just leave Mortis and hitchhike across the galaxy?”

“Yep!” She grins smugly and starts walking down the cliff. “Come on, little Brother. We have a galaxy to explore.” In his Sister’s footprints, flowers bloom in wonderful arrays of colour.

“ _Little_ brother?” He squawks indignantly and runs after her. When he steps exactly where she steps, the flowers die and the grass returns to normal. “I’m not younger than you!”

“Maybe. But I’m smarter, so I’m the big sibling from now on.”

“I beg to differ!”

“Then beg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyo, Imma back!
> 
> It occurred to me that Quinlan can't just lose an eye and be perfectly fine with it, so I gave him trauma.  
> And then I gave the Son trauma because nothing was stopping me.
> 
> The Quinlan and Obi scene was written as platonic, but I realized when I was re-reading it that it could be interpreted as pre-slash. Now the story is going to have background pre Obi/Quin. Nothing too big, so don't worry if ur not here to read romance. But if u like these two together, then fear not. Romantic tension awaits!
> 
> Next Chapter: Anakin hates telepathy


	11. Telepaths would make Great Lawyers, but Terrible Babysitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think the Chapter Title really Says It All  
> and I'm not sure what else to add to this summary.

Anakin has always thought of everybody as being in one of three categories when it comes to mental walls; the strength of a trained Force user, the natural shielding of an adult, and the open mind of a child.

Force users are quiet presences in the Force, they draw no attention to themselves and can easily be ignored. Adults are more noticeable, but their minds are shielded enough that it takes conscious effort to read their thoughts. Children, though are the absolute worst. Their minds are clusters of unrelated and non-linear thoughts that spill out into the Force for any half-decent Force user nearby to hear. And he can’t shut it out.

Maybe it would be more tolerable if the kids were thinking of something useful, like where the food is in this Force-forsaken compound. But instead he’s stuck with variants of _‘who is that’_ and _‘why is he here’_.

_He looks only a bit older than us._

_Is he one of the instructor’s kids?_

_Does he have something to do with all the long-necks disappearing?_

_Where’s he going?_

Yeah, not even he knows the answer to that last one. All he wants is something to eat, but it’s been 20 minutes and he’s still wandering aimlessly. At some point he started leaving metaphysical breadcrumbs behind him in the Force, to avoid walking in circles.

_I passed him in a different hallway._

_Geez, he walks fast._

_I think he’s lost._

_He looks really dumb._

Anakin shoots a glare at that last kid, who goes wide-eyed and scampers away down the hall. Little karker.

_Why did all our training sessions today get cancelled?_

_I heard Unit 7B’s instructor didn’t show up._

_The instructors are acting really weird, and now this guy shows up?_

_Maybe he came here with the scythe wielder?_

Anakin pauses in the hallway and turns to look at the kid who thought that. One of the younger ones, (3 or 6, however you want to measure their age) with a fading bruise around his eye.

_Oh no, he’s looking at me. Why me?_

It doesn’t take much effort to look through some of the kids more prominent knowledge. Current destination: _Mess hall._ Unit number: _6A._ Designation: _CT-7567_

Oh. It’s Baby Rex. He’s the one Anakin scared the kriff out of when he was attacking the Kaminoans. “7567” he calls, and all movement in the hallway slows to a halt. The kids are looking between him and Baby Rex nervously. “You mind showing me where the mess hall is?”

Baby Rex stands at attention. “Of course, sir.”

“’Of course, you do mind’ or ‘Of course, you can do it’?”

Baby Rex blinks and shifts his weight slightly. The cadets on either side of him tense. “I can show you, sir. Right this way.” He starts marching down the hall in his original direction (back along the trail of metaphysical breadcrumbs) and Anakin follows after him. The cadets around them return to their businesses, with only a few last lingering stares.

“You don’t need to address me as ‘sir’. I don’t outrank you.” Which is a weird feeling. There’s a mental age gap of 46 years or so between them.

“Oh.” Baby Rex stops walking and turns to look up at him. “I assumed you were of equal rank to the instructors. Do you want the instructor’s mess hall or the cadet’s mess hall then?”

“Whichever one doesn’t have Boba Fett in it.”

“Understandable.” Baby Rex starts walking again, this time at a more relaxed pace. “I can take you to the mess hall my unit’s currently in. It’s where I was going anyway.”

_Why did he single me out?_

Anakin doesn’t need to explain himself. He really doesn’t. But… the look on Baby Rex’s face when he puts two and two together? That will be priceless. “Do you know what the Jedi are?”

“Of course.” Baby Rex looks up at him with furrowed brows. “We’re all taught about the Jedi. We’re going to serve under them one day.”

_Or, ‘were’ going to serve under them. I don’t know anymore._

“So then you know about the Force? About the things they can do with it?”

“Some of it. They can be stronger and faster than normal people. They can move objects with their mind, and heal people, or see things that have already happened or are happening in different parts of the galaxy. They can also make people do things or read their thoughts.”

_Like that scythe wielder did. Was he using the Force?_

“He was.”

Baby Rex grinds to a halt and looks up at him.

_Did he… did he hear my thought?_

“Yes. I did.” Baby Rex’s thoughts devolve into a string of swear words and panicked half-sentences. Anakin hides a grin, and instead faux idly picks Kaminoan blood out from under his fingernails. Apparently not all of it came off in the fresher.

“Are you… a Jedi?”

He scoffs loudly and looks back at Baby Rex. “No. But I do use the Force.”

_Doesn’t that make you a Jedi?_

“It doesn’t.” Baby Rex looks very disturbed. “The Jedi are a religion. One of many that use the Force. All the different religions have different views on how to use the Force and why to use the Force.”

_So you’re from a different religion than the Jedi?_

“No, I’m not part of any religion. I hold my own views, and I follow them how I want.” They’re starting to get weird looks from passing kids, probably because Anakin is holding a one-sided conversation. “Let’s go to the mess hall, and you can keep playing your 20 questions while we eat.”

“Right.” Baby Rex pushes open the nearest door and walks inside. Seriously? They were right outside it that entire time? “We all sit with our units so, uh… you can join mine if you want.”

“Are you sure you’re allowed to invite strangers to sit with your unit?” He follows Baby Rex’s lead in collecting a weird brown slop and a water bottle from the dispenser in the center of the room.

“Well, it’s not like there’s any long-necks around to stop me. And my unit will probably love having someone new to talk to.”

Baby Rex is correct. As soon as Anakin sits down with Unit 6A, he is met with wide eyes and excited chatter. Their thoughts overlap with their voices, and Anakin can’t make heads nor tails of any of it.

“Okay, calm down guys.” Baby Rex laughs at his suffering (he wasn’t that sadistic in the previous timeline, was he?) and starts digging into his slop. “One at a time.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Skywalker.” He takes a quick scoop of his slop. For how unappealing it looks, it’s actually not that bad tasting. Mostly bland, with a faint hint of spice. “I’m staying here while I reprogram all the droids. So, probably a couple weeks or so.”

“The droids are getting an update?”

“No. A complete overhaul. What you currently have is kriff, so I’m changing pretty much everything about them. Larger databases, different behaviour, cool personalities, all that.” He waves his spoon in the air as he talks, and spills a few drops of slop on the table.

“Do you know anything about what happened to the long-necks?” The chaotic part of his brain (which is most of it) cackles in glee at the opportunity he’s been presented.

“Well, yeah. I killed them.” The table falls silent, but the thoughts of every kid get louder with confusion and panic. Beside him, Baby Rex’s mind is quickly connecting dots.

_Jedi use glowing swords. The scythe wielder used a glowing scythe. Skywalker said the scythe wielder was a Force user like the Jedi. He’s a Force user. He can read minds. The scythe wielder read my mind. The scythe wielder killed the long-necks. Skywalker said he killed the long-necks._

Baby Rex points an accusing finger at him. “You’re the scythe wielder!” Ah. There’s that priceless expression he was looking for.

“Yes.”

The other kids around the table shift in their seats, and their thoughts spin in different directions.

_7567 was telling the truth about there being a scythe wielder?_

_But Skywalker is only a few years older than us. How could he kill all the long-necks?_

_If he killed them all, then why haven’t the instructors gotten rid of him?_

_Didn’t he say he was here to reprogram the droids? Is he a mechanic and a fighter?_

Anakin looks away from Rex so he can point at the last kid. “Yes. I’m also a mind reader.”

The kid startles, then narrows his eyes. “Why did a mechanic, fighter, and mind reader come here to kill all the long-necks?” Current action: _Evaluating situation._ Unit: _6A._ Designation: _CT-5385._ Huh. It’s Baby Tup.

“I was asked to, and I said ‘yes’.” He casually stirs his brown slop and takes another spoonful. “Apparently the instructors want to get rid of the long-necks.”

_What?_

_Why?_

“I’m not clear on the specifics” -Anakin scoops up the last of his brown slop- “but I do know that the instructors got rid of the long-necks so you won’t have to train anymore.”

Baby Rex’s eyebrows furrow deeply. “Why would the instructors do that?”

The rest of the kids around the table nod and mutter in agreement, watching Anakin for his answer.

_Why would they want to do that for us?_

_What are they expecting in return?_

For a second, Anakin sees the face of older Rex, looking at him with trust and respect. And he sees the face of older Tup, eyes blank as he mutters “good soldiers follow orders” over and over again. He remembers glaring eyes and “it’s the Jedi who keep my brothers enslaved”. He remembers Stormtrooper helmets over familiar faces.

He sighs and rubs his temples to banish the memories. There’s no use dwelling on the past. But… it’s not the past anymore. He can choose to change it. He doesn’t need a grand scheme or meticulously crafted plans. All he needs is to spend a few minutes taking to them, and try setting them down a different path.

“This is a little off-topic, but; I said the instructors ‘chose’ to get rid of the long-necks. I said I ‘chose’ to help them. You know what it means to ‘choose’? To make a decision without restriction from other people?”

The kids look confused, but they go along with it anyway and nod. “So you know that the long-necks do it, and the instructors do it, and I do it, and other people outside the compound do it?”

More nods. “And you know that you never do it?”

The kids blink in surprise. “But we make choices all the time!”

“Without restriction from other people? The long-necks decommission you if you make too many choices they don’t like. Isn’t that restriction?” The kids shift in their seats and frown at the table. “Do you know what corporal punishment is?”

A round of nods. “So if pain is meant to be used to correct wrong behaviour, then why are you in pain all the time? Even when you haven’t done anything wrong?”

“It’s training” Baby Tup interjects.

“Training for what? More pain? What have you done to justify fighting and dying in an army?” He raises his voice slightly, mostly so he can hear himself over the loud thoughts of the kids at the table.

“But… people join armies all the time.” Baby Tup is still frowning heavily.

“Because they choose to. They know there’ll be pain, and they’re prepared for that. If they don’t want to be hurt, then they can choose not to join. But when did you choose to join this army?”

None of the kids are meeting his gaze anymore. “The long-necks don’t let you make choices. They constantly punish you even when you haven’t done anything wrong. You can’t escape the punishments, because they just get worse. Do you see how that’s wrong?”

No one says anything, but their thoughts are spinning loudly. They don’t fully understand, not yet, but they’re beginning to see the actions of the Kaminoans in a new light. “If all of you, kids with only three years of learning, can see that, then why can’t adults with over twenty years of learning see that? Why couldn’t the instructors see how wrong the long-necks were?”

Baby Rex looks up at him with shiny eyes, but there’s defensive anger in there too. “We obviously don’t know, so stop asking and just tell us already!”

No one said he needed to be nice in order to help them, right? So he injects a full dosage of venom into his voice and seeps Darkness around the kids’ Force signatures.

“They did see it. Some of them were just as bad as the long-necks though, and didn’t care. Others turned a blind eye and ignored it, because it’s what everyone else was doing. A few of them deluded themselves into thinking it didn’t matter, because you weren’t naturally born. That just because you were created in a lab you aren’t any more sapient than a droid.”

Baby Tup looks up at him and bites his lip. “But what if we aren’t? What if we’re exactly like droids?” He looks close to crying. Maybe affecting their Force signatures was too much. Anakin lets the Darkness disperse, and the kids relax slightly.

“The droids started a ‘droids right’ movement entirely unprompted. If a bunch of numbers and programmed responses can do that, then I think a 100 billion neurons can do so much more. The long-necks might have designed your accelerated aging, but nature designed your brain. As long as it’s still ticking, you’re as sapient as any other human.”

A very annoying corner of his brain reminds him about the control chips all these kids have implanted in their brains. He should probably tell the Cuy’val Dar about that at some point.

Rex is still deeply frowning. “So what changed? Why are the instructors doing something about it now?”

How is he supposed to know? He’s not a mind rea- okay, bad reasoning. He _is_ a mind reader, but he hasn’t read the Cuy’val Dar’s minds. He honestly isn’t sure exactly why the instructors suddenly decided to have a change of heart, but he can make an educated guess.

“The ones that did care didn’t do anything because no one else was. No one was willing to be the first person to say something about it. But as soon as someone did start talking about it, everyone else was quick to back them up, and pretty soon most of the instructors were overthrowing the long-necks.”

Baby Tup tips his head in consideration. “Which instructor was the first to start ‘talking about it’?”

“Jango Fett.” Eyes widen and jaws drop. The kids fall into stunned silence. “He seemed to originally be among those that considered you no better than droids, which is kind of stupid when you think about it. I mean, you’re literally just smaller versions of him. Did he think he was also a mindless soldier?” Some of the kids chuckle.

“The point of telling you all this, though, was to help you see that it isn’t a question of ‘why did they do that’, but rather ‘why didn’t they do it earlier’. The instructors were just as bad as the long-necks because they knew what was happening and still let it continue. What they’re doing now is just…” –he waves a hand in the air in a vague encompassing gesture- “starting reparations. Getting rid of the long-necks doesn’t suddenly make them good. They’re still bad people, but most of them are working towards being better.”

Oof. How did this conversation become about morals? Not his area of expertise.

He glances around the room and realizes that most of the other units have left already. “Right, I’ve gone on longer than planned, and I’m still hungry. I’m going to get a second bowl.”

“You’re not allowed second bowls.”

“Says who?” He stands up and collects his empty bowl. “The Kaminoans? I wasn’t aware dead people could talk.”

Then he walks back to the food dispenser, and ignores the mixed surprise and amusement from the kids behind him. What he doesn’t ignore is the anxious Force signature of Baby Tup getting up to follow him.

While he’s filling his bowl with more of the brown slop, Baby Tup stops next to him to get a refill from the next dispenser over. “So, uh… I was wondering if maybe you could give me some advice, seeing as you know so much about… _everything_.”

“Sure, but I can’t promise it’ll be good advice. What do you need? Stealth tips? Battle tactics? Help with building lightsabers? Espionage?”

“I need to know how to apologize to someone.”

Oh. Not what he expected, but… still doable. “You’re in luck, kid. In my youth I perfected the art of apologies.” Baby Tup gives him a weird look. He ignores it. “I can teach you my four step method for apologizing to people.”

He swallows a scoop of the slop, then leans against the dispenser bench so he can talk to Baby Tup. “Step One: Establish what you did wrong. They need to know that you can see just how bad what you did was, and you need to know that they’re fully aware of what you’re apologizing for.”

Baby Tup nods solemnly.

“Step Two: Express honest levels of remorse. Don’t over-exaggerate it, because they’ll see right through it. But also don’t downplay it, because they might end up thinking you don’t care. Apologizing is one of those rare occasions when being honest is actually the best option.”

He’s speaking from personal experience here.

“Step Three: Explain how you’re going to make up for it. Tell them what you’re doing to fix what you did, or to stop it from ever happening again. You broke something of theirs? You’re going to replace it. You got angry at them? You’re going to anger management classes.”

Baby Tup winces at the last example.

“Step Four: Expect nothing more than what they’re ready to give. Most people only apologize because they want to be forgiven and feel better about themselves, but I can tell you from experience that having people apologizing to you and expecting you to forgive them is the worst possible feeling. You need to make it clear that you’ll accept it if they don’t forgive you, but that you’ll always be sorry.”

“Does that happen often?” Baby Tup glances back at his unit and worries his lip between his teeth. “Can people just… not forgive someone?”

_What if 7567 doesn’t forgive me?_

Anakin also turns to look at the unit, and his eyes fall immediately on the fading bruise around Baby Rex’s eye. “For very serious things? Yes. Some people can’t forgive the wrongs done to them no matter what is given in reparation. But for a black eye? I think that can easily be forgiven between brothers.”

Not that he’d know. Hello; only child here.

Baby Tup turns back to him, just in time to miss Baby Rex glancing their way. “But isn’t it worse when you do something like that to family? They trust you more than anyone else, and to break that trust…”

Anakin chuckles. “Punching your brother because you’re angry isn’t that big of a deal, unless it happens often. And the thing about family trusting you, is that they also trust you to not do it again. Family is stubborn; it takes a lot to make them leave.”

Like Kenobi, who only left him when he finally turned away from the Jedi. Or Ahsoka, who only left him when he’d lost all compassion. Or Padme, who was forced to leave him because the passion of the Dark side had heightened his anger and pain. Or his mother, who…

Who was torn from him by death the first time, but who never left him the second time around. Even when he suddenly became an entirely different person, with terrifying power and without morals, she didn’t leave. She just accepted it, and kept loving him anyway. Forcing him to eat, and still telling him to ‘be safe’ even when she knew nothing could touch him.

He hasn’t spoken to her in a while. He should give her a call soon.

“You need to get a parent” he tells Baby Tup. “They really are the greatest things in the universe.”

“O…kay?”

Anakin rolls his eyes. Here he is, trying to give out good advice to impressionable young kids, and everybody just looks at him weirdly. He’s really feeling his age right now.

“I’ll talk to R- uh… 7567, when I get the chance, and prepare him for getting a really in-depth apology.” He’ll also need to explain the whole ‘you don’t have to accept apologies if you don’t want to’ thing to him, like his mother did oh so long ago in the last timeline.

Yeah, he really needs to call her soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaddup!  
> A happy weekend to everyone, or a terrible weekend if you'd prefer.
> 
> I'm thinking of doing a series of one-shots set in this au, so if there's anything you'd like to see drop it in the comments.  
> That's uhh... that's pretty much it. I think this is the shortest Chapter Notes I've ever written. Wow.
> 
> Next Wednesday:  
> A wild Dooku emerges


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